People on the street call him ‘The Spaniard.”

Most describe him as an older fellow, small and somewhat stooped. Hat and shades obscure his face, and the ones who've seen it up close are dead.

There was Abstro, the grafittist, found on a rooftop with a number-two camelhair brush through his left ventricle. Traces of paint - dark ochre - but no prints, no DNA.

Next was Honee Monet, a commercial neo-impressionist. She was slathering white irises alongside a sun-dappled lake, a mural at the local Starbucks, when a small man driving a black Cadillac Escalade drove onto the sidewalk. She died in a pool of blood and cerulean blue.

Worst of all was Square Tony, a gangbanger with the Cubism Cult. Nobody knows what Tony did, but the Spaniard remodeled his face with a mat knife. Ever see a man with two eyes on one side of his head? It changes your perspective.

What's the Spaniard's game? Over latte’s clutched in shaking hands they whisper of an avenging art-angel settling scores and punishing the overrated. Maybe. All I know is the bad artists of my city die like rats and the Art District’s quiet as a tomb.

Want to comment on this Flash Fiction? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Flash Fiction and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...