He is sitting in the backroom and
the jeweller’s hand fills his senses, the cracked and broken skin, the surgical
cleanliness, as it marks out his ear for mutilation. The jeweller turns away to
his collection of tools.
Skunk (indicating pen): For a second
there I thought you were just going to push it through with that.
cog: Ha no no no. No... I use this.
His hand grips checkered walnut stocks,
all four visible cylinder chambers overfraught with abortive lunacy, hammer in
emulous recline of his finger pulling the trigger.
Skunk: No. No. NO.
flinching
away to slam himself awake against white wallpaper.
Skunk:
Oh Jesus... Uncle Jesus
his
hands all over his face, tears and sweat.
He
headed downstairs to make himself some coffee, hoping that the neighbours would
not complain to his landlord about the screaming, again.
