I have a gun. Put the money in the bag.
My eye's itch; they feel strained. My left one doesn't
focus right, the contact is crap. Everything has a halo
around it like i am dreaming. I'm standing, looking at
shelves but can't quite make out what is resting on them.
He walks towards me. An outstreached hands thrusts a small
piece of paper into my palm. It reads: I have a gun. Put
the money in the bag. I reach for my wallet and run my
fingers through three different presidents standing in
numerical order. Franklin grabs my index finger. "Do you
have change for a hundred" i ask?
I think i'm sick, it's has to be some kind of documented
illness. I had nothing to write tonight; i was kind of
bored. So i grabbed some cash and headed for the video
store. I browsed through title after title trying to find
something that looked remotely intellectual. Focusing
through greasy contacts, i found three movies to soath my
itch. This itch, it can't be scratched. It comes and goes
as often as my paycheck. It show's up fashionably late and
leaves right before it goes out of style. And like flames
follow smoke it comes every two weeks to burn wholes in my
pockets. So i spend, willfully robbing my self just to
scratch the itch.
I stare at the top of his head, burning a hole through it
as he searches his pockets for his wallet. My left eye is
screaming again, but i have to stay focused. I keep the gun
tight in my grip relaxing my finger but ready to squeeze.
He finally hands me a hundred. I reach into my duffle bag
and hand him back his change and the three movies. "nice
doin' business wit you," i say smuggley "i'll see ya 'n a
week or two."
-Nathaniel V Stiers