Midi Canoe by Jimmy W

The sky melted down like hot lacquered resin and met the jet-black canal stretching out in front of me. It was raining harder than a latrine in midwinter. I lit a cigar and thought of the dame in Valentino’s, the dry cleaners just off Vector & Third, and the information she’d given me on Mr Cogito’s blue market monopoly. The dame was bad news, I thought, angry and full of questions, like a tiger in a liquor store. With my hands metaphorically tied and insides twisted by a cocktail of dread and sailors soup, what choice did I have except to trust her lead? I opened the canoe glovebox, and as luck would have it there sat a two-way parallelomirror staring straight through me. It would show me the way to the checkerboard maze corridors of Cogito’s halogen vaults. I blew a heavy smoke ring and penetrated it with the stubby. Time to leave.

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