An expensive divorce and subsequent coke addiction later, Mark found himself performing illegal abortions to finance his habit.  The money was great, but the risks were substantially greater as death threats from pro-life extremists were increasing.

All this had to stop.

Mark rubbed his nose after a quick fix.  He flicked on the lights in suite 1623 and approached the window.  High off cocaine, the purity of the snowy precipitation outside moved him profoundly.

He vowed to have performed his last abortion.

And shivering is not conducive to his profession.

In the past eight hours, Smith has seen thousands of women high-heel the streets and hundreds walk by the hotel, but only deemed one who could get away with murder.  A real vixen.  She moved fast, but nothing escapes Smith.

Suddenly, the lights in suite 1623 flickered on.  Moments later, a man with powdered nostrils neared the center of his scope.

Smith pulled the trigger.

Hit completed, Smith went shopping for snow pants.

But today, Debbie wished she was invisible.

Do they know what she did?  Is that why they are staring?  Can she really get away with murder?

Leaving stiletto perforations in the snow-covered streets, Debbie hurried past the hotel she spent numerous profitable nights in.  She clasped her purse tightly over her frantically beating bosom, avoiding unsolicited attention.

To Debbie, everyone seems to know she just had an abortion.

“OMG.  You’re Kobe Bryant!”
“Sup?”
“Nothing, just… dumbstruck by your unadulterated basketball greatness.”
“Thanks?”
“You’re welcome!”
“Nah, I mean you could’ve said ’thanks’ for fourteen straight Laker championships.”
“FOURTEEN?”

Kobe raises fourteen championship-ringed fingers.

Jaw drop.

“Here.”
“A tip?”
“For the doors.”
“This can’t be happening.”
“Why not?”
“A purple and gold Aston?”
“Custom painted.”
“With revolving doors?”
“Custom fitted.”
“A million-dollar bill with your face on it.”
“Custom printed!”
“But nobody ever tips a revolving door doorman.”
“Treat them like superstars and who knows?”
“So I’m not dreaming.”
“We most definitely are.”

I am red and I serve thee.  I have been bled on battlefields and forged in fire but never will I feel blue.  Master, what do you bid of me?

I am blue and I serve thee.  I am the sky, the sea and a mood.  Humor me not master, what do you bid of me?

I am your Master and I bid thee mix with flit.  For without light, I can’t see shit.

““Sorry honey, I got distracted.  Be right back!”

The hotel gets 4 times more weekend guests than weekdays.  On weekdays, a conservative estimate of guests per revolution is 0.7.  Each revolution takes 5 seconds tops.  Thus, working 5 hour weekday shifts and 8 hour weekend ones, Samuel would see 44,856 faces per week.

If just half of them each tipped him a quarter, he can pay his way through college in 3 months flat.

Samuel worked out all this arithmetic in his head but failed to acknowledge one damning caveat: No one ever tips a revolving door doorman.

My idea is to write 100 stories of exactly 100 words long.

“Big deal!”, you scoff.

Well, it is!  Each story must read as stand-alone stories on their own, but the “big deal” is as you read the stories in (or out of) order, a bigger plot develops.  I picture it as an ambitious threesome with Catch-22, Memento and Love Actually.

I’m not exactly sure how (or if) this would work, but that’s what 100red is for!