(no subject)
Pete made out some faint garbles. Flimpojshowahsheeoh uuffff.
“What the fuck was dat,” Pete mumbled. His toothpick, sitting limply on his lower lip, bobbed up and down with his words. He adjusted the knobs again, and this time he directed the parabola not to the wall in front of him, but to the steel door leading down to the basement confines of Cheviot Machine and Screw.
Through the baffle of steel door, and concrete stair and hall, Pete Limpelli heard some words. Finally. A few words.
Water cannon
I dunno Len, looks kinda complex
Yeah
I can find us a pump though
Can ya?
Yeah
How ‘bout a cold one.
Creak. Clink.
Ca-splah.
Clink.
Beast? I told you to get Miller.
Sorry.
I told you to use petty cash.
Pete sat there in the front seat of his Lincoln Towne Car. His mouth, hanging wide open, toothpick dangling in disbelief.
“Who are these fucking jabonis?” Pete said. “Minchia.” He cupped his hand to his forehead. Someone, somewhere, up there, was surely watching all of this.
William Comparetto
© 2006