Tinder…

“Free?” echoed the incredulous teenager, looking up at the snaggle-toothed man leaning against the burnt out streetlight, scratching at his purple do-rag.

“Absolutely homes,” was the reply. “Yo, it’s a buyers market out here on the streets, man, lotsa competition, you dig? I gotta do my thing to stand out. Free samples is just my thing.” The man grinned around a soggy toothpick. “This way you remember the Flashman and come see him again, right?”

“Sure,” said the kid, impressed, “Gimme the stuff.” With an ease borne of practice the older man slipped the teen a small clear bag, so smoothly that the transaction was barely noticeable. Muttering his thanks, the youth scuttled off down the trash-strewn street into the Epic City night.

This shit is too easy, thought the Flashman, scratching a shoulder blade on the ornate wrought iron of the lamppost. That kid would be back, no doubt. Those free samples were purer than the normal shit, setting the hook hard on the first hit. They all came back.

He dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his ratty army coat as the wind keened like a falcon. He looked up and down the street, pretty well deserted at this time of night. It wasn’t the best spot, but it was a good one, and it didn’t cost too much to ‘lease’ it from Jimmy Po and his Dragons. This was the life; he had a nice crib, and a Benz and women when he wanted them. Minimal cop hassles too. If these kids from the burbs had to come to him, hurting and shaking, handing him money they got in desperate ways, well that was their lookout.

Another kid was headed his way, across the street. He shuffled past boarded up storefronts and a stone building with decorative turrets, government offices or some shit. He came across the street to the corner, head deep in the hood of his Goodwill sweatshirt, swaying and weaving in his thrift-shop threads, he stopped in front of the dealer.

“You the one they call the Flashman?” the voice came out as a harsh whisper, almost a croak. Obviously this one already had it bad.

“That’s me, my man, what you need?”

“I need a hook-up, man. My connection got put in the joint an’ I’m hurtin’.” He unslung a torn up shoulder bag with the Phatsole logo on it and set it on the ground. “You holdin’?”

“Sure, bro, I got what you need. You got money?”

“Yeah.”

“Then show me, my man. I gotta see it before I hook you up.” The young junkie dug in a frayed pocket, looked around furtively from the shadow of his tattered hood, and stepped close to Flashman. He pulled his hand from the pocket and extended it to the dealer. Flashman reached in his own pocket for another bag and went to take the money.

Suddenly the kid grabbed Flashman’s wrist with one scarred hand while the other snagged a wad of the army jacket’s collar. The pusher’s head bounced with a dull clang off of the iron pole behind him.

“Ow! What the f-“ he started to snarl, reaching for the gun in his pants.

“Dead bang, punk-bitch, you done pushing your poison on kids!”

Flashman stared in mute surprise at the hate filled expression on the bald, scarred visage of the young man, now mere inches from his own face. Then his world exploded.

The dealer tripped and fell, Toby landing on top of him, their agonized screams mingling as Toby’s fiery torment enveloped them both.

It wasn’t long before the screaming and the thrashing ceased. Toby lay on top of Flashman’s body, feeding it more of his fire as he walled off the pain and found his center. In a few moments he went out. He quickly patted down the undamaged parts of the smoking body and found the man’s money roll in his boot. Piece of shit won’t need this anymore, came the cold thought. He stood, naked and freezing in the chilly night, and looked around. He grabbed the shoulder bag with its set of thrift store clothes in it and disappeared into a trash filled alley.