Porphyre

She laughed. Porphyre clucked and tutted, came forward to flick his long fingers at Angie’s bangs with mock revulsion. “Missy was a bad girl. Porphyre told you those drugs were nasty!”

She looked up at him. He was very tall, and, she knew, enormously strong. Like a greyhound on steroids, someone had once said. His depilated skull displayed a symmetry unknown to nature.

***

Mona Lisa Overdrive ch 7