…and on the 8th day, micro fiction was published on some dude's blog.


Lou was roused from a deep sleep by the security company calling to tell him someone had tripped the alarm.

He sped over to the store and the cops were already there, assessing the damage.

The place was trashed, but very little was stolen. What was stolen, though, was telling: Lou’s entire stock of Muscle Milk, hair gel, Maxim magazines, and cherry-flavored cigarillos were gone.

And the place reeked of Axe body spray.

As an officer led him to the graffito-tagged wall–an Ed Hardy-looking skull, rose, thorns, and ribbon design with the letters ‘ESDBs’ featured prominently–Lou had a feeling about what had gone down, one confirmed a moment later by the officer:

“Looks like you’ve been hit by the East Side D-Bags.”

Lou didn’t know what he’d done to make enemies of them, but he knew this: He had been through some stuff in his years running the bodega.

He had apprehended shoplifters ranging in age from nine to ninety, he had busted more than a few counterfeiters. He stood up to the two-bit Mafia wannabes who had tried to shake him down for “protection money”. He had been robbed at gunpoint three times, and shot once. His shoulder still wasn’t quite right.

So if those Douchebags wanted trouble, they had come to the right place. They could go ahead and BRING IT. He’d be ready for them.

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