Warren and Hunter in the Afterlife
“Send lawyers, guns and money …” Warren growled, strumming the Stratocaster.
“… the shit has hit the fan,” Hunter crooned.
Warren put down the guitar and the two men had a grand, long laugh, the first time for both of them in quite awhile. Hunter popped open a Bud 16-ouncer and presented it to Warren.
“Hey, you sing better now than you did when you were alive.”
Warren took a long drink of the cold and frothy beer. “Thanks. I noticed that too.”
“They took you too soon, man.” Hunter popped open another Bud.
“Well, what can you do? You left way too soon as well, you know.”
“Shit! I did that myself.”
Warren nodded sadly. “That’s why I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Last place I thought I’d be. In any event, your singing’s improved … vastly.”
Warren ran his bony fingers through the stubble that decorated his chin. “And you? Getting any writing done?”
“Hell no,” Thompson groused. “God won’t let me have a typewriter, thinks I’ll make fun of him.”
Previously in Random Flash Fiction: Stalker, Motivated
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Thanks, Scot. Hey, everybody, make sure you check out Scot’s website (click on his handle). In honor of National Poetry Month — April — Scot wrote and posted a poem a day for 30 days.