I am walking in a hallway. I come to a room with a door blocked by a man in a folding chair. He’s texting on his BlackBerry. I ask him for directions. He asks if I have a camera or recording device. I don’t. He tells me to go through the door behind him, not to stop, to the far side and through another door. The door behind him takes me into a strip club. I leave through the door on the far side, a fire exit (no alarm sounds), as instructed. I am outside, in front of a row of clubs in an open air mall in Baltimore. I find this odd because Baltimore is not San Diego. Every other store is empty and dark with a “For Rent” sign in the window. I walk through the mall, moving around debating Jewish women and a ten-year-old buying a handgun from a man in a suit. I find the parking lot, find my car, drive home. Over dinner I tell you about my day. You want to know how I got from Maryland to New Jersey in less than thirty minutes. I blink.
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Craig Scott is an unimaginative pseudonym. More work will be/has been published under this name in Drunken Absurdity, Horror Sleaze Trash and Rusty Truck. A free e-chapbook is available from Ten Pages Press.
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