Flash fiction, by Tyrone Butler

To explain: every week I'm supposed to write a piece of flash fiction on a prompt given by one of my little writing group. This week the prompt was 'window', and my feeble excuse for a brain had nothing to offer. So I asked my character Tyrone to do it instead. Makes sense now, eh?

I bought this apartment because of the window. Not the room-high one out front, but the little one looking out back, over the dumpsters. It reminds me of the other side of things, away from Central Park and sparkling avenues. Behind the glamour lies the filth.
This came home to me recently. Some squitty kid, fighting with Eugene the bellhop outside my door, yelling that I stole his story. Which, of course, I did not. He screamed so loud he even disturbed Bubba on the fifteenth. You know Bubba, wannabe Schwarzenegger guy who never got further than playing the knucklehead sidekick in lousy movies. Bubba’s been devoted to me since I found his stash of gay porn and suggested somebody may want to tell Entertainment Weekly. What a guy.
Bubba came racing down, ready to pound the squitty kid into next year. At this point, the kid became amenable to compromise.
‘Everyone’s agitated,’ I said, sending Eugene back to his lair. ‘Why don’t you go get some air, then we can talk this thing through?’
The kid was squeaking in agreement even as Bubba yanked him away for a tour. We have charming roof gardens – really charming.
I poured myself a JD, then went to my back window. I made a mental note to thank Bubba for stepping in, and settled back to watch my troubles fly away.