Flash Fiction on Sunday Afternoon

It was a smokey room with no windows and it smelt of stale beer and cheap cigarettes. The one bonus was that it was 30 degrees cooler than the night shrouded parking lot she had just left and probably a thousand degrees cooler than her flaming Chevy a hundred yards down the road.

The ancient juke box in the back was playing an equally ancient song that she recognized. It had been on the hit parade when she was 10 and going through her country music phase. The voice was as smokey as the room... what was that guy's name? She remembered she had loved his music but it was long forgotten now.

"What can I get ya, Babe?"

Now there was a line to get a girl's attention. From the cave-like booth where he crouched, he squinted glazed eyes at her through a cloud of smoke that boiled from his mouth, probably from the stygian depths of his soul. Betweet slack, wet lips she saw a flash of sparkling white teeth just before he stoked the fire again. Oh yeah, he was hot, all right, just smokin'.

"A phone book and phone would be great." She directed her attention toward where she hoped the bartender was in residence. Den was an appropriate term if this guy was any example. She had a sinking feeling that the night might not get better.

"Hey, Babe, I'll give you my number, you ain't gotta look it up."

She looked back and found that her imagination was taking over and Jaba the Hutt was leering at her. Great, just what she needed. She could only hope he was as hampered walking as the original Hutt had been because she was no Princess Leia and there was not going to be a Luke Skywalker or Han Solo appear to rescue her.

She moved toward the end of the bar, supressing a grin. She wouldn't mind Han Solo rushing in and grabbing her up. Of course it was Skywalker who always did the dashing moves, levitating while brandishing a sword at the bad guy with a girl on his other arm. No, Solo was just handing out the grins, hugs, and kisses in dark corners of the Falcon. She sighed. There weren't going to be any heros in this tale. She just had a bad feeling about it.

"Excuse me," she said as the bartender moved her way, "do you have a phone book. My car just blew up and I need a tow."

His eyes widened and his mouth formed an O before he replied, "Honey, you won't get a tow tonight, not around here. You are 75 miles from a real town and the only garage we have locally is run by that slug you passed on the way in. And he is in no shape to drive anyone anywhere unless it is to hell."

I turned back to stare at the Hutt. He grinned a whisky grin and wiggled his fingers at me. Oh God, the night was not going well at all. What little space she had acquired between her and trouble just went up in smoke.