it was a black night. black rain
streamed on the road ahead. wipers
flip-flopped leaving broad ripples
on the windshield. it was late
for Mr. Grimsell to be out.
he was going to the office to work late.

as he drove down the entrance way
to his large and influential
industrial warehouse, way the hell out in the west end
of the big pulsing city
alive with thousands and thousands of television
sets and antique bar lamps,
towers and the rest of urban life that goes with it —
Mr. Ginsmell’s headlights swept over the backs
of two burly hit men (raising little sparkles
like light twinkling off of little dust motes suspended
in air, except these were little raindrops falling, falling,
falling) who were posed over the fiendishly slain corpse
of Mr. Dimshelve’s partner, employee and boss.
horrified, he drifted with the car helplessly
forward. in grotesque slow motion
the two hefty hit men (who were professional
killers working for gamblers Mr. Himselve’s
shareholder owed hefty money) drew enormous
hand guns. simultaneously, steely steel barrels gouted
smoke flame and bullets and Mr. Plimsoil
bought the farm, DOA, cashed out his vacation pay.
the three piece slugs blew Mr. Quimstall’s immaculate
brains all over the back seat of his car, caved in
the front of his face (because the gangsters used big guns);
the other bullet removed Mr. Gumboil’s heart, left lung and seat
cover (almost immediately). death was instantaneous.
Mr. Crumbbell’s foot slammed to the floor
at the moment of expiry
with such enormous force that
the big car of Mr. Somehell
accelerated and randomly struck the killers, killing them.