- •Joe Pitt 4 - Every Last Drop
- •If I gave a shit about any of that stuff I'd give them a hearty pat on the back and maybe buy a boy in blue a beer sometime.
- •I had such an opportunity tonight.
- •I peel a strip of fabric from the shredded headliner.
- •I flick some ash.
- •I eye her. —There a reason I shouldn't?
- •I peed all over his yard.
- •I shake my head. —Kid, this jacket won't fit you.
- •I can lament just fine here.
- •I bare my teeth, the toe between them.
- •I bleed, eyeing his scalp.
- •I flinch, draw up my shoulders and duck my face into my chest.
- •I set the photo down. —Yeah, tell me something concrete.
- •I consider.
- •I watch the black waters between the Bronx and Manhattan, as Predo spins words at me.
- •I snap a match and she touches her cigarette to it.
- •I take the last drag off my smoke and stub it. —Kill him.
- •It's distracting.
- •I wave a hand.
- •I shake my head.
- •I raise my hand. —I never said ta-ta.
- •I didn't pass math. Shit, I didn't pass anything. But I can figure that number in my head.
- •I look at her.
- •I lived in Maspeth, I'd look at those massive cemeteries lining the l.I.E.,
- •I flick ash. —They are.
- •I put a hand out and brace myself against a Dumpster and get myself to my feet, trying to figure what hurts me most. —Got me. The health of your portfolio?
- •Inside the Enclave warehouse, it's all edge.
- •I feel it too. It goes to my guts, the madness in this place. The clattering of
- •I look at the two Enclave sitting on the floor just outside the open door.
- •I look at him. White skin to match the suit. Bald. His once skinny frame, now a coat hanger for the designer threads.
- •I punch him.
- •I look at them. I don't say anything.
- •Vyrus messiah.
- •I take a drag, think about Queens. —Yeah, seems that way to me.
- •I look at the pack of smokes I've crushed in my hand. I tear it open and pick a broken Lucky from the shreds. I put it between my lips. Take it out. Put it back. And take it out again. —I didn't know.
I bare my teeth, the toe between them.
And he pulls a cap-and-ball .44 from the greasy bathrobe draped over his shoulders and puts it against my head.
—Yes, now bite. It will please me if you do.
So I bite.
But I don't think it pleases him much at all.
He doesn't shoot me. He just watches as I rip his toe off and spit it onto the floor. And he laughs as he has the three boys work together to keep me from thrashing too much while they take one of my boots off and the girl lifts my foot to the man and he shares with me just what it feels like to have a toe bitten off.
Me, if I had the gun, I'd definitely shoot him. A lot.
—You see, yes, you see how they task me, yes? This, this is what they bring me. This paltry offering. This soupcon. And out of this I am to feed us all? How, I ask you, how?
He takes one of the bags of blood from the TV tray and unzips the top a little, places his mouth over the opening and tilts his head back and sucks and swallows and the blood runs too fast and wells over his cheeks and down his chin and onto the collar of the robe and the pleated front of his wilted tuxedo shirt.
He finishes and tosses the bag aside and lifts his chin. —Miserable.
Do-rag takes a crusted square of linen from the TV tray and wipes the man's mouth and chin and neck, careful not to pull on any of the long strands of oily reddish hair that hang to the mans shoulders. —Yes, good, enough.
The boy steps back.
The man lifts the second swollen bag of blood.
—And this to last for how long? How long until they can find some other feeble and crippled runt that they might manage to bring down? Barely worth keeping. Pathetic.
Police Cap takes the bag from him, to a fridge wheezing in the corner, and slips it inside onto shelves loaded with bags of pig trotters and chicken feet.
The man picks up the last and smallest of the bags, the dregs of the dealer the girl drained in the vacant lot.
—Since you still resist the concept of industry, this will have to serve for all of you.
He holds the bag out at arms length and the girl reaches for it. —Not you, Meager.
He points at the empty bag on the floor.
—Scraps will serve for you.
He offers the bag to Moustache, a grin cracking around the teeth that still trap a bit of my toe between them. —For you, Low, to share with Miserable and Pathetic.
The boy reaches for the bag and the man pulls it back. —And you say what?
Low touches his moustache. —Thanks, Mr. Lament.
Lament smiles again. —Such a good boy.
He gives him the bag. —And all of you?
The kids chorus. —Thanks, Mr. Lament.
He nods. —Yes, manners. When prompted, I know, but some manners, nonetheless.
He flicks his fingers at them.
—Away now. Go feed your disgusting faces away from me.
They scramble for the door, the boys clustered with their half-full bag, the girl trailing, looking at the red residue inside hers.
The door closes.
Laments kinked neck bends toward me.
—Children. One can do little with them short of stuffing them in a sack and tossing them into the river like kittens.