“You’ll be perfect for the job.”
The man had pentagrams tattooed on his bald head. There might have been a devil on his arm — it was too wrinkly now to tell. A spliff hung from the corner of his mouth.
The woman’s smile stretched wide enough to show her one remaining tooth. Charms and bangles hung everywhere: neck, wrists, ears, nose, mouth, nipples — the shirt, sadly, was sheer enough to make that last one obvious.
“You!” the old man cried, pointing at me. “You’ll be perfect for the job!”
I stared at them and took a few steps back. The streets were deserted. Why are there never witnesses when you need them? “Um, I have a job already.”
Before I could escape, the woman slipped behind me, catching me in a classic pincer maneuver. “This is just a small job, dear, won’t take but a moment.”
“No, really, I’m good.” Maybe if I took off sideways I could get away from them. I considered the flanks, weighing my odds
Before I could run off, the man grabbed my arm, dragging me towards a battered Ford by the curb. Despite his frailty, his hand still had power. Almost before I knew it, I was in the back seat of the moving car.
I tried the door, but it didn’t open — damn child locks! The windows didn’t wind down, either. Somehow my cell phone had vanished. I looked up front to see the woman fondling my apps.
We passed only one car on the drive, a pickup that rumbled past, oblivious to my screams for help. The old people turned down deserted roads, dirt rather than pavement. After a few miles, they finally stopped the car. The child locks disengaged, and I stumbled out of the car.
“Don’t leave,” said the man. “We still need you for the job.”
The woman smiled a gummy grin. “You’re just the perfect specimen for our human sacrifice.” She pulled out a long, curvy knife out of her handbag.