This is the 67th installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
He ran out of money, so he had to stop playing poker—at least for the night. Joey tried to put up his car as collateral to play another game, but the bouncer stood. Joey stood, too. He hadn’t yet learned his lesson about poker, but two months ago, he’d learned a lesson about ignoring the bouncer.
Joey emerged from the basement and climbed a long, narrow staircase. The door at the top stuck—it always stuck—but one good shove with his shoulder did the trick.
Walking past the dumpster, Joey rotated his shoulder and winced. He must’ve come at the door from the wrong angle; he resolved to dig out his heating pad when he got back to his place. He’d packed it in one of the bedroom boxes—or maybe one of the living room boxes.
Joey paused. A hundred yards ahead of him, someone stood leaning against the streetlight. He couldn’t tell for sure at this distance, but he thought they were facing him. Their familiar top hat filled his legs with lead.
He didn’t move until the figure closed the distance between them. Then, Joey stepped back. He fixed his eyes on the toes of his tattered shoes; he knew better than to look at this thing’s face.
“I told you,” Joey said in a voice that wavered too much. “I told you. I don’t want to—”
He felt a rush of cold air. Peering up without shifting his head, Joey saw only empty sidewalk in front of him. His right hand felt heavy, though, and he looked to find it full of cash. A thin stream of smoke trailed from the bills and disappeared into the night sky.
Joey tucked the cash into his coat and shook his head. Why bother moving at all?
Miles Away 