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FuhgeddaboutitMitt was down for the count. Bill and Brooksy had already taken their kicks to his ribs, while Peggy stood silent, unfiltered Camel in her claw. She watched, her snake lips thinning even further as they stretched across her skull for her “smile.” Just as Bill was about to deliver his boot to the back of Mitt’s head, Mitt’s jaw carefully opened and propped on the curb, Peggy finally spoke. “No,” she spat in her unmistakable goon-speak. “Let me.”

Peggy had a tsunami of words at the ready, thousands and thousands of them. Peggy had about a million words, actually, to let Mitt know what an unspeakable loser he was, that he’d been brought back here for special retribution for having fucked the dog for their gang. He was a loser, a shallow operative, a no-good constant fuck-up, incompetent, not brave, not bold, even his ads were fucking boring, and he was “sad-looking.” Peggy let her words flow forth over Mitt, his eyeballs pinned open like in Clockwork Orange so he could watch as she stubbed her cigarette out on his nude, bound torso.

She flipped her hair out of her eyes, and continued. She had some ideas, if he didn’t want to die that night. One was for him to go to Brooklyn, surround himself with guy-types and immigrants. She hadn’t really thought this through, how likely he was to insult their homemade baklava or tell them that their work boots looked cheap. She also hadn’t really thought about the blacks who would likely show up to laugh and hoot and jeer at him.

Honestly, Peggy never really thought things through. She just whirled and whirled her words around, a vortex of words, until she fell through them on the other side, coming to on the floor after she’d been knocked into a trance by the wordwordword of her sentences, spinning, so many adjectives, so many musings, so much Ronny.

She remembered Ronny. The only time she’d ever loved. What a brute he had been, a faithless, ruthless brute. She still ached when she thought of him. There would never be another.

She remembered the time he knocked her across the jaw right to the ground. She trembled, wanting to feel that sweet kiss again.

She had another idea: get some senators to stand with Mitt. And … that was about it for her ideas.

No, she realized, neither of those things would clear up Mitt’s constant dog-fucking and bed-shitting. Mitt was going to have to die. Tonight. She’d never cared for a curb-job, though. All those teeth. She brought out her slim, shiny blade. She counted his ribs.

Home.

[WSJ]

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