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  His gun was pulled out of his jacket and another fist slammed into him but this time it hit his temple. The sudden attack disoriented him and Shotgun man found himself more confused than he had ever been. He caught a glimpse of the person who was hitting him. It was Cathy.

  Now she had a gun to his cheek. She said, “You think you’re gonna come in here and kill my son and I’m just going to sit back and let it happen? Huh?”

  “What? What do you mean?” Shotgun Man said. He was sincerely confused and that confusion prevented him from making any sort of move. It was as if all of his skills had been erased from his mind. “Your son? Who’s your son?”

  “Like you don’t know, squid-fucker,” she said. “Like you aren’t looking for Johnny so you could kill him.”

  Shotgun Man shrugged. “Yes, I’m looking for him.”

  “So you could kill him?”

  “Yes. So I could kill him.” The gun dug deeper into his cheek.

  “I’m his mother. What do you think I should do? Huh?”

  “Whatever you have to,” Shotgun Man said. “Right now, I can’t do a thing about it and I don’t know why.”

  Cathy smiled. “You smell pancakes, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  The waitress laughed, taking the gun away from his face and then sticking it under his chin. “You can’t move, huh?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you won’t be able to kill my son, then, huh?”

  “Guess not.”

  Cathy twisted the gun. “Where’re you from, anyway?”

  “Chicago.”

  “No, I mean, what country. You have an accent.”

  Shotgun Man grimaced. Everyone in America always wanted to know where someone is from as if that really made a difference in matters of life and death.

  He said, “Sicily.”

  Cathy grunted. “Heard it’s nice over there.”

  “It is.”

  “They have pancakes in Sicily?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  Cathy shook her heard and pulled the trigger. The top of Shotgun Man’s head flipped open like a can of tuna fish. Grey matter and bloodied skull peppered the ceiling. His body fell to the floor, dirtying the linoleum.

  The customers in the diner were staring at the events without emotion. It was not unexpected.

  A man walked out of the kitchen and stood next to Cathy. He said, “Mom, I could’ve handled him myself, you know.”

  Cathy slammed the gun on the counter. “Really, Johnny? If you could have handled it, why didn’t you kill those squid-fuckers when you had the chance?”

  “I had problems, ma,” Johnny said. “You know I have emotional issues.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s all I’ve been hearing about for years,” Cathy said. She grabbed Shotgun Man’s legs and started to pull him. “Now help me dump this asshole and then go back to making those pancakes. We got hungry customers.”

  “Okay, ma,” Johnny said, grabbing one of Shotgun Man’s legs. “You think maybe later I could take the car and go over to Peggy’s?”

  Cathy stopped dragging the corpse and stared at her son. “Are you fucking kidding me, Johnny? After all this, you expect to see that whore again? Let me tell you something. You’re staying home tonight. You’re staying home with me and we’re going to watch the game.”

  “The game? Who’s playing, ma?”

  “Phillies, I think. But that’s not all. Tonight, I’m going to teach you a few things about life.”

  “Life?”

  “Yeah, life,” Cathy said. “And if you’re lucky, you might learn about death, too.”

  APPENDIX IV

  PINK MEAT RISING

  Long lines of red dust create faces that signal me forward to encounter symmetrical genitals full of pox. There are bellies full of mental viruses and rumbling concrete bowels that tell me so many filthy words.

  I shoplifted a book, several books actually. I read them in the parking lot. I learned about magick and crime, sigils for extortion. You know, tough guy stuff, all of which made me into the man I am today.

  Victorian devils gather at the foot of my bed, spilling their seed in spirals of lust. I experience fevers of apocalypse toy donkeys. Someday they’ll bring me to the hospital and I won’t be leaving.

  Sifting through dime store alibis for a beast of burden while belching symbols of redemption, I think of Uncle Timothy and his box full of hair. Every strand was a vile story that demanded to be preached to all who would listen.

  We ride into town to rob banks and cast spells with shotguns. We are blood-spilling bastards in debt. There’s something special about smoking cigarettes in hiding and counting unmarked bills that makes me feel at home. But then I remember I have to dig a hole and throw the guns in.

  Mental squid eating brains of crime, forcing eyes to stare at bags of teeth and large breasted viruses. I give myself up to black magick bowel movements. I’ve read this book five, maybe six times and I still don’t understand the ending. Something about pancakes, something about death and a desire to sink one’s teeth into smelly shoe leather.

  We’ve gathered plastic bags full of fever. My throat is a dustpan where illness is expected. Sometimes I wish it wasn’t worshipped. Old red gods pick apart my immune system until I’m coughing up pictures of whores who will destroy me in the world to come.

  Goddamn those sweet cheeks luring me in until I can’t resist. I gorge myself on the snakes in your abdomen. Morning comes and its all stained fingers and sore teeth. A girl wakes up beside me, looking like a pale queen, holding flowers against her chest, weeds jutting up from her ample cleavage. I hear the voice of my father telling me to mow the lawn, mow the lawn.

  Mow the lawn.

  Around the room there are symbols of a world flushed with blood. My bowels are ready to fall like an empire. We should’ve been on the road an hour ago. There are bloody holes and clumps of hair everywhere. Where the hell are the car keys?

  There is no universal truth that doesn’t involve visions of blue teeth and pink meat. Soft menstrual stars chew me up as I ride on red currents of swine runes. I’ll eventually be engulfed in squid-like flames that pick at the scabs of apocalypse, forcing me to accept that the assassination was real and not just a bloody puppet show.

  We’ll both witness the light of Lincoln and of Christ as we get into the car and speed down highways of apple crepes and blueberry rape. Blackbirds will babble about the green breath of God and his assassins.

  Signs up ahead will tell us to turn left. We always turn left.

  There will be nothing left.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jordan Krall is the author of several bizarro books, three of which have been published by Eraserhead Press. He has been praised by such authors as Edward Lee, Matthew Revert, Tom Piccirilli, Gary Coleman, and Carlton Mellick III. Readers are encouraged to contact him at www.filmynoir.com. Jordan loves Italian cult films, squid, and pancakes.

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