“I believe you were saying something.”

Rommel Busker caressed the butt of the Jericho 941 pistol poking out of the black canvas holster on his hip. A pair of Ray Ban Caravan sunglasses rested low on his nose, and he looked over the top of them at a short, squat figure pressed against the dingy, stained tiles of the bathroom wall. A fluorescent light over the sink flickered, and in the silence it produced faint electrical zaps. The scent of piss and vomit wafted out of shit-stained toilets. An earthy, muddy smell.

The man against the wall looked back with pleading eyes, as fat drops of sweat burst out on his bald dome and slid around the circumference of his almost perfectly round, Charlie Brown head. He wore a short-sleeve button-down shirt, like a cheap Hawaiian job but without the gaudy print. No undershirt, so tufts of graying hair stuck straight out above the top button. Threadbare khaki shorts barely concealed legs that looked too thin to support his bulbous torso.

Busker drew his gun from the holster, and pointed it at the man, almost touching the barrel to his glistening, crumpled brow.

The man's voice trembled, “I'm just doin' my job, man.”

“Yeah, man. Work's a bitch. It just uses you up and spits you out.” Busker's finger slid up and down the trigger like he was caressing the most delicate areas of a lover.

“Yeah, man. Yeah! You know what I'm sayin'.”

“At least you don't have some desk job, stuck behind a computer 40 hours a week.”

“More like 60, the way they treat you nowadays.”

“I think we're on the same page with that.”

“You're good people, man. Good people.”

Busker pushed up his sunglasses. “How old was she? High school? She was a cutie.”

“Yeah, a real daddy's little girl.”

“A heart-breaker.” Busker grinned, teeth flashing like fangs from behind his dark lips.

“It was just one bag, man. What about my family, man? Puts food on the table.”

“Yeah, you're a regular John Smith.” Busker pulled back the hammer, and the click echoed off the porcelain.

“Aww, man. Come on, please, man.”

“You even have a family?”

The man looked down at the filthy floor. “Nah, man. You think there's a woman out there would fuck a guy like me?”

“At least not without some incentive.”

The man looked up, straight into the gun. “What are you talking about?”

“Everybody's got something to offer, even if it's only one bag.” With the gun he motioned towards the man's crotch, lost somewhere below the gelatinous mass of overhanging gut. “Your fly's down.”

“Hey, man, I was just taking a piss,” the man choked out.

“Yeah, I know,” Busker nodded, “and a little girl just happened to be in the shitter with you.”

“But you see…”

Bang.

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Next: COMING SOON