Adventures of Quigley & McFinleyyy Chapter 1 – Neon Nights & Margarita Fights

 

Adventures of Quigley & McFinleyyy

Chapter 1 – Neon Nights & Margarita Fights

The city didn’t sleep. It sweated.
Neon lights buzzed like dying insects, the air thick with gasoline, sweat, and cheap perfume. Synth beats leaked from every open-top Camaro crawling down the strip.

Quigley leaned back in the white Testarossa’s passenger seat, cigarette ash trembling with every bump in the road. His linen suit was sharp but not spotless—it carried the faint tang of tequila and last week’s blood. McFinleyyy drove one-handed, the other gripping a tumbler of whiskey. Ice was a foreign language.

“You know what I hate about Miami?” Quigley muttered.
McFinleyyy grunted.
“Everything’s sticky. Sticky cash, sticky floors, sticky women.”
McFinleyyy downed the whiskey, slammed the glass on the dash, and cracked a smile. “Sticky blondes ain’t so bad.”

They pulled into Club Inferno, headlights bouncing off Ferraris and Lamborghinis stacked along the curb like trophies. Blonde women in neon dresses draped themselves over the hoods, laughing like sirens. A valet in a cheap jacket stared at the Testarossa like it was the Second Coming. Quigley flipped him a hundred. “Scratch it if you want. It’s not ours.”

Inside, Inferno was drowning in sequins and sweat. Armani suits swaggered through clouds of perfume and cocaine. Waitresses balanced trays of margaritas big enough to drown a man. At the center of the dance floor, a pyramid of coke sparkled on a mirrored table—wedding cake for the damned.

McFinleyyy spotted a brunette at the bar, laughing too hard at nothing. “See her? I’m gonna marry her.”
Quigley smirked. “She’ll stab you first. If you’re lucky.”
Two blondes slinked past, hips moving to the beat, leaving behind a perfume trail strong enough to qualify as chemical warfare. Quigley watched them disappear into the crowd. “Or maybe you’ll stab yourself trying to keep up.”

They ordered margaritas—salted rims, because killers liked their vitamin C. That’s when it went south. A Wall Street reject in suspenders plowed into McFinleyyy, spilling pink tequila all over his shirt. He muttered, “Watch it, pal,” without making eye contact.

McFinleyyy froze. Quigley knew that look. The look that ended with missing persons reports.
“Breathe,” Quigley whispered. “Think zen thoughts.”

McFinleyyy smiled. Then smashed the margarita glass into Suspenders’ face. Blood and lime juice sprayed the crowd. Women shrieked. The DJ didn’t notice—he just cranked the bass.

Suspenders’ buddies lunged. Quigley ducked a punch, headbutted a man in mirrored shades, and lifted his Rolex before he hit the ground. McFinleyyy turned a barstool into a blunt instrument. The blondes cheered from the sidelines like it was the Super Bowl.

The brunette McFinleyyy had proposed to in his head tossed a switchblade toward him. “Kill him, baby!” she howled.

Quigley caught it mid-air, cigarette still in his mouth. He twirled it lazily, grinning. “Sorry, darling. We don’t kill for free.”

By the end, the dance floor looked like a massacre rehearsal. Broken glass, unconscious bodies, coke snowing over sequins like Christmas in hell.

That’s when he appeared. The owner.
Tall, tan, cream suit, gold chains heavy enough to sink a boat. His smile was crocodile-wide.

“You boys got spirit,” he said, Cuban accent smooth as rum. “I like spirit. But spirit costs money.”

Quigley flicked ash into a puddle of spilled tequila. “How much are we talking?”
“Your souls,” the Cuban said.

McFinleyyy burped. “Already swapped mine for whiskey.”

The Cuban laughed, but his eyes didn’t. “Then maybe we make business.”
Quigley exhaled smoke into his face. “Or maybe we make enemies.”

The music pounded. The blondes whispered like conspirators. The brunette cackled. Cocaine fell like radioactive snow.

The night wasn’t over. Hell, it had barely begun.

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