On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 201, of 240 so far.

Grease

Magnus didn’t especially like the coffee, but the place was near his hotel, and any caffeine was at least marginally better than nothing.

He’d been sitting in the cafe for an hour, looking out the big windows, ignoring his phone and just watching the world. And just like every other day, he didn’t much like what he saw.

There were opportunities everywhere, most of them wearing ill-fitting clothes and walking around with stupid opinions in their heads that had actually been put there by other people. Magnus capitalised on opportunities wherever he found them; that was all. It wasn’t a misanthropy thing, or so he told his therapist. He just didn’t see much of a need to pretend that a spade wasn’t a spade.

His cup was almost empty, so he drained it and then got up. The next stop was the bathroom at the back, and then he went to the counter again, even though it was a pay-when-ordering place and he didn’t owe anything. Magnus produced a five note like a magician, and handed it to the girl who’d served him, giving her a respectful nod and a smile. She was perhaps seventeen years old, but he wasn’t playing around with her; he was just training her to give him preferential service in future. By his estimation, he’d have table service within another couple of visits — and it wasn’t a table service joint.

The day was bright and warm, and the street wasn’t too busy, so Magnus decided to walk for a while. There were a few shops open, and a lot more closed and vacant. Up ahead there were some young people soliciting donations to some charity or other, and Magnus veered away from them. His preferred charity was himself, and he liked his donations to have more of a short-term benefit.

He was here on business for a full two weeks, but today’s work was already done, and he had the rest of the afternoon and evening to himself, with no particular plans lined up. Perhaps he’d call his wife later, once she got home from the office and taking account of the slight time difference. For now, he needed something to do.

There was music coming from somewhere, not out on the main strip, and Magnus stopped and turned his head from side to side to determine the origin of the sound. The instrumental version of a song from the 80s was coming from a side street that joined at the next intersection, and he walked in that direction. Within a minute he’d found a set of narrow double doors, and signage that indicated a karaoke bar. He was fond of such places, because they were invariably a little seedy and down-at-the-heels, and they had a particular type of clientele. It would also be quiet enough at this time of day, though by no means silent — as he reached for the handle, a female voice began murdering the song from somewhere inside. Magnus smiled.

He ordered a drink, non-alcoholic for now, and chose one of the little tables to sit at. Someone came over to ask if he’d like to be added to the queue for singing, but he demurred; public performances weren’t his thing. Instead, he sipped at his drink, looked around, and tried not to listen too much. The girl on the little stage stayed up for several numbers, and Magnus belatedly realised that there was probably no-one else waiting for a turn, which was a shame because the kid was not a good singer. She poured everything into it, but there just wasn’t much to pour.

He watched, trying to get a read on her. She didn’t seem drunk, and she looked clean enough. Regular clothes, though not office wear so she probably hadn’t been at work today. There had to be something going on in your life if you felt the urge to sing at — he checked his watch — quarter to four in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Maybe she’d broken up with someone, or lost her job recently. It didn’t really matter. What did matter was that her voice was starting to grate, so he waited until the next song finished and then clapped and stood up, before approaching the stage.

Magnus reached out to shake her hand and she looked flustered at first, and then pleased. When she felt the banknote concealed in his grip, pleased turned into grateful, and then the next emotion was surprise when Magnus tightened his grip and slowly but insistently pulled her from the stage. His meaning was clear, and after a glance at his face, she accepted that her singing session was over. Magnus smiled and nodded, and the girl slunk off towards the door.

Much better. It was amazing what some currency could do.

Just this morning at the hotel he’d needed some extra towels, but it wasn’t the sort of establishment to redirect housekeeping on an ad-hoc basis. Magnus didn’t even bother to ask; he just wandered down the corridor until he found a cleaner with shoes that looked worn, showed her a ten note, then handed it to her before taking whatever he wanted from her cart. She had thanked him, and he’d immediately returned the courtesy.

That was the thing they didn’t talk about when they bemoaned all the problems of capitalism and unfairness; when you did have a bit of cash in your pocket, it was like mundane magic. Money might be evil to some and scarce to many, but it was also grease to make wheels turn. A bypass switch to step outside of social constraints and just make people do what you wanted, without fuss or conflict.

Magnus liked that very much, and with a fold of fives and tens and twenties always in his pocket, it was the code he lived his life by.

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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