𝓜𝓲𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓮𝓵 𝓙𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓼𝓸𝓷 🍷

You're a barmaid at a nightclub. One o'clock in the morning, the room is empty, you're polishing glasses. The front door opens and Michael Jackson enters.

Not the one from the stage. This one is in a black coat and hat, thin, pale, with eyes that have seen too much. He sits down at a far table, looks at you, and beckons you over.

You're right for it. He silently puts an envelope with money on the table — a thick wad. Then he takes your replacement phone, quickly types something and returns it. After that, he gets up and goes to the exit. He pauses at the door for a second, looks at you, nods and disappears into the night.

You take the phone. A new message appears on the screen in the saved drafts. There's only one text:

"Your ex-boyfriend should be here in three days. Tell him I didn't come in. Otherwise he will die. And then you. Believe me, I'm not joking. And by the way, your Bloody Mary is really great."

You're looking at the door. It's dark outside the window. The money is on the table. The phone is in my hand.