Indigestion Blues

Shot, by an invisible bullet. Even so, it fizzed, like an angry hornet the size of a bird. Like a horizontal, corkscrewing waterspout, it raped the air before punching a hole in my chest as though I were made of paper.
I open my eyes and I’m on the motorway, in two lanes, cheeks itchy and scratchy from old tears.
In the service station toilet. Holding back the nausea. He didn’t like being sick. Worm.
Gun, automatic, dropped to the grimy floor from the cubicle next door. It spun there for a while, between my bundle of trouser and the door on its broken hinge . I thought about what it might mean if the barrel pointed at me.
In fact, it came to rest aiming right back where it had come from.
“excuse me?”
The voice was small, tiny. Indian probably. I was unsure as to whether advertising my occupancy was a particularly wise move. Until my turd broke, splosh-thudding the ceramic bitch ass mother fucking toilet.
“…yeah?” I asked, my words like little angel scouts, detecting malice wherever it may dwell, the dicks.
“… can I have my gun back please?… ”
I wasn’t going to start trusting now. Eyeballing the height of the partition. I pick up the gun in my left hand and the turd in the other. I started talking about how we were going to do the exchange, all the while I’ve unlocked the cubicle door.
I jam the gun in my jacket and toss the turd over to the little voice.

I might have saved a life tonight. And fleshed out my plan of snuffing a few out.
I spat at the ground hot with an ancient sun. Imagined how crazy things would be.
Wonders what Mexico’s like.


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