Bee Finds Tar in Honeypot

“Have we met before?

“What?”

“That’s the code. If I say ‘can I buy you a drink’, it means I’m blown. You say you’re late for karaoke and bugger off. But if I say, ‘have we met before’, it means I’ve cut off his thumb and I’ve got it.”

“And who would believe I’ve met YOU before?”

Bradley blinked three times. A bulge of saliva tracked down his stubbled neck.

“Fuck’s sake, Sarah, shut your gob and listen! If I say ‘have we met before’ and you’ve got the laptop, you say we haven’t but I look like someone you’d want to meet and invite me to your room. If you haven’t …”

“Why on Earth would I invite YOU to my room?” Sarah said, puffing out blueberry vapour through her nostrils.

Bradley’s ears reddened like radishes. He leaned over the table, extending his meaty arm towards her, knocking his tea. Porcelain smashed on the floor. Gazes landed on them. Bradley’s head swivelled left and right, then sank into his collar and he sat back, hissing:

“Cut the shite, will you? I’m the one putting his cock on the block with that Iranian psychopath for his thumb, not you. Good luck cracking the laptop without the biometrics!”

“Well, if we’d met before, you would’ve known I’ve no cock to put anywhere. But having to purr my way into the lap of that garlic-breath North Korean slimeball is not what I’d call a pleasant evening.” Sarah’s mouth quivered. She smacked her lips. “You know what? Whatever. I’ll honeypot the North Korean. I’ll get the laptop and then I’ll invite YOU to my room. Happy chappy now? But once we get paid for whatever’s in that laptop, we shoot off to sunnier places on opposite sides of the planet, okay?”

***

Sarah sucked on her vape and followed with a big gulp of gin-tonic. She would need a lot of that to chase away the taste of mouthwash. But the laptop was at her side and a sun lounger was waiting for her somewhere. She just had to wait for that clown to show up so they could open it.

A face appeared in the mirror behind the bar. Not Bradley. Someone darker, in a business suit, a gaping wound in his shoulder. Sarah’s face tingled as the guy clambered onto the barstool next to her. Definitely not the Clown. The Iranian!

Not-Clown offered a handshake — hand bloody, thumb lolling loose on a thin strip of skin.

“Excuse my attire, miss. I’ve had a little hiccup with a deal you might be aware of. Just a minor disagreement with a fellow who nearly took something from me.

Not-Clown gazed into Sarah’s eyes that stung like she’d rubbed them with the gin. She shuffled in her seat, her hand landing on the slick titanium-cased laptop. How was it going to be taken from her?

The Iranian smiled, revealing teeth covered by red-streaked saliva.

“Oh, pardon me! Where are my manners… Have we met before?”

BIO: Stefan Sofiski is the pen name of a double miscast in the literary community: a left-brain structural engineer writing fiction, and a Bulgarian doing it in English. He holds a PhD in engineering and a Pushcart nomination in writing. He juggles these two worlds, often embarrassing himself in both. Stefan works in two intertwining registers: literary fiction (Unbroken Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Tint Journal) and thriller/noir (Shotgun Honey, Close to the Bone, Thriller Magazine).