Willie Smith

Under the Gun

Roll out of bed. Bed rolls out of me. The floor rolls like a sailor at sea.

Slouch toward the kitchenette. A guy occupies the couch – hubby of the gal I, at the party last night, screwed on the toilet seat? Points at me a gun. Large revolver. Classic .357? I don’t know guns; though I love the precision of their build, and of the ammo they hurl.

I say, without interrupting my death-march to the kitchenette, “Your wife always fart when she cums? Or that because my dick so much bigger than yours?”

A click – as of a hammer cocked – clicks.

Hope to make it to the finger-smeared fridge, and the iced Nescafé inside. Hope to get down enough to wake up and realize this all a nightmare – the party, the toilet, the too-high wife, the gun, the guy…

Not the couch. I need the couch. For those occasions I coax a female down here; because she often kicks me, for sundry reasons, out of my own bed.

Or, if this real – hope, in that last frame, as the slug flies ahead of the bang, to see why the ugly – especially when bad – always feels too good.