Mr. Lucky (Redux)
Millie Dynamite
Mr. Lucky
(Redux)
A Dark Angel’s violent encounter with a young white man.
Millie Dynamite
Copyright© 2014/22/23 by Millie Dynamite
This is a work of fiction and not intended to promote a lifestyle. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental.
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Mr. Lucky
The town was far removed from the problems of the big city. What minor crime occurred in the sleepy hamlet was of the misdemeanor variety. Boys dreamed of running away from the community, while the girls dreamed of marrying the local boys and running off with them. That night did not differ from the tens of thousands of proceeding days. The local movie theater ran features on both screens, with two showings of each movie on weekends. After all, it was Saturday.
The young projectionist locked the doors once everyone left and surveyed the parking lot as the owner drove off, tossing him a wave. The projectionist turned into a janitor, and he cleaned up the mess.
Shortly after he began, the old clock in the town square started chiming out the hour. Twelve mournful clangs intoned the midnight hour. Despite the loud bells, he barely picked up the ringing as he swept up the last of the popcorn. Carefully, he placed the garbage in the dumpsters in the back and stared at the overcast clouds.
If he squinted his eyes, he could make out the dim glow through the dense cloud cover of the full yellow moon. Staring around, thin curls of fog rose from the lake and moved toward him. After a few moments, he reconnoitered the vacant lot behind the theater while the fresh fog blew over the parking lot. With haste, he rushed inside to mop quickly and head home. The painful truth be told, he hated walking through thick fog and had an idea this was a peasouper.
Tanking two steps at a time, he ran up the stairs to the booth and gathered his books, placing them in the leather satchel. The satchel was called a soft briefcase, but he thought the thing appeared to others like a purse—which he hated. However, being a gift from his mother, he always carried the thing. Moving from the booth, he caught his reflection in the office doors’ glass windows.
“Shee-it fire. I look like some little fag carrying a purse. Note to self, I must figure out how to lose the damn thing.” The young man walked at a brisk pace down the stairs. Staring at the glass doors, he couldn’t see across the street.
A thick fog hung over the streets like a blanket of white. A soft thud echoed in the distance as he inserted his key into the lock. Gazing about, he saw no one and nothing. After locking the door, he went through the darkness toward home. A pair of almond-shaped, dark eyes followed him—hungry, lustful, and angry eyes. Softly, she moved from the recessed door of the jewelry store. Sneakers softly followed the boy. The tennis shoes squeaked, but the fog almost swallowed the soft sound.