“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