Jeff Phillips: God’s Least Likely to Succeed [excerpt 2 from the novella]

Drinkers with Writing Problems

dan9 Image by Dan Macrae

Fib changed into the tuxedo pants, slid on a white, cotton undershirt. He laced up the black leather shoes, they felt sturdy. The robotic Tiedt offered him a small handgun to tuck inside one of his black, argyle socks. After he was dressed, they departed from the car wash and rode through the night. Orange sunset dimmed the sky to a dark dome and Fib couldn’t keep his eyes off the play of lime green LED lights that cast an upward blink on the mannequin face. It was Tiedt’s face, the more he looked at it. Minus the large pores and coat of skin oil, the cake of pale dead skin cells bloated by sweat. It was a prettier Tiedt, a Tiedt without the chip on his shoulder, but the plastic looked odd, too smooth.

The robot’s voice was calm and told of the next agenda…

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