Whisky looked over the shoulder of her Speakeasy moneyman and accountant, Smokin’ Fingers; Business had not been booming lately and she had a sense that he’d been dipping into the till at the same time he’d been cooking the books for her. Like the Scottish mage, he had become a liability, even if he was a lot younger and quite a bit more handsome.
Tossing back the last of her hooch, Whisky blew lightly on the back of Smokin’s neck, solidifying her plan to get rid of the both of them in one fell swoop after one last tumble, with the help of a recently acquired Appalachian associate.
Little did she know that her new associate was one of three, and that the many threads spun by the dark-eyed one had already been gathered and woven together, the pattern designed and selected by the golden-eyed one, while the third, her eyes calm and green as the sea before a storm, stood by with her shears poised to separate, that a new pattern might grow out of the old.
But the Scotsman was aware, even if not fully resigned to his fate, and he carved one more set of runes just above the brass tablet on the wall of the bootlegger’s walkway, and shouted its name into the darkness, as he sizzled and collapsed into a dark star, and an eruption of sewer water roiled over the walkway and up the tunnel to flood the musicians and lovers, sweet-faced whores and bleary-eyed addicts, rich boy drinkers and disenchanted cops, that frequented the Speakeasy.
The three weird sisters from Appalachia put their threads and cloth and shears down, just to enjoy that singular moment, before again taking up their work.
© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2022)
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