Them Chompers

In his heavy breath, "I bought them for you, Marie," with his big, stupid grin like a junkyard of rusting jalopies. He is banging away with his huge palm on the old piano his goons just dumped in my living room.

There were some flutes too. I think a saxophone, and what? A banjo? Those faceless lowbrows in black sweaters just keep bringing them in, throwing them around.

"I know how much you like music," he's shouting, but all I can think about are those chompers and how he must cut the inside of his cheeks all the time. "This is what you want," with a flick of drool arcing out. He's waiting for me to jump in here, yell at him, beg, accuse, scream. Fuck him.

"I want you to be happy," he bangs away on the piano again, the room rings with a hard, disjointed note. My head's leaking bad from that gash behind my ear, but I can still think straight. I stare at him, waiting for him to pull that pearl-handled piece out of his jacket.

"I wish it didn't turn out like this. This whole thing is such a mess," he pauses for me to speak. I clam up. Just get it over with, fucker.

He licks his lips over that jagged soup can lid sticking out of his gums. He gets in real close, leaning in, touching my face. "I want him to know it was me. When your man finds you here. I want him to know I did it. I want him to be real angry."

He wipes his sweaty palms on his grey slacks and draws that pistol.

"I want him to be angry enough to do something real stupid."

I close my eyes as he cocks back. I don't want those teeth to be the last thing I see.