Wednesday, September 9, 2009


The lacquer cracker on the jukebox kept skipping so I told that bum of a barkeep to unplug the hunk-of-junk once and for all. It wasn't a time for the rah-rah's of wartime propaganda and I needed to think.

Think about my two crumb-bum partners. Think about which of 'em deserve the loot to begin with. Think about how I could hop a freight with the dough and no one would see this two-bit newsman again.

But then I heard the squeak of the back door open and those high heels approach, slowly. When I heard her gun cock, I knew she was alone.

As I took one final drag of the Chesterfield all I could think was, "Even when we were married, this broad never did know how to share..."

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