by Sacha Chua
I tug the hem of my red leather dress down against the cold. Out of the corner of my eye, I see another man join my shadow. Three men on my tail. It's two in the morning. Not a good time to walk in this part of town.
I walk faster, my heartbeat louder than my footsteps.
One man yells, "Hey, babe! Wait up! We just want to play!"
I can't outrun them. Not in these stiletto boots. I walk faster anyway, adrenalin surging through my blood. I feel their leers boring into my back.
Narrow alley to my right. Probably leads to a dead end.
I disappear around the corner. Their footsteps get louder, cockier. They can't wait to close the gap. I can hear them breathe.
Snapping my right heel open, I withdraw my monofilament garrote. Strangulation is fun, but decapitation is so much quicker—and this one takes a feather of a touch to slice through bone and cartilage. This way, they can hear their heads hit the ground.
I make short work of the scum. Then I wipe blood off leather, replace my heel, and saunter on, an alleycat on the prowl.
In response to "PIRATES" prompt on flashxer mailing list:
THEY PICKED UP THE BLIPS OF HE THREE BOATS PERSUING THEM, BUT DID NOT REALIZE THEY WERE PIRATES UNTIL THE FIRST SHOT WAS FIRED. THE CRUISE SHIP CAPTAIN ORDERD FULL SPEED, THE LINER WAS PEPPERED WITH GUN FIRE AS SHE MOVED FROM A LEISURELY 15 KNOTS TO MAXIMUM SPEED, LEAVING THEM IN THE WAKE.