I could feel some heat at the soup kitchen and it wasn’t coming off the steam tables. Yeah, I was the last one to see Gus or John or Mack (whatever the guy’s name was) alive. The police that interviewed me bought the story of me saying “bye” and taking off in my car. I always get the benefit of the doubt. The sargeant that questioned me stated, “You never know with these types-maybe he found something else, maybe he’s on a bender, maybe he’s dead on a park bench somewhere.” But the whispering of the staff combined with their stares got to me. I hightailed it out of there. No worries, the fake I.D. I used to register as a volunteer meant that I could melt into the night.

…And show up at The Salvation Army. I rightly figured that a) hobos would be ringing that bell dressed as Santa Claus to earn themselves a few bucks and b) my offer to volunteer to oversee a few of them would go over well.

Joe and Vern were simple types that shared a strong work ethic and mental issues. Getting to know them a little, they’d never been able to hold down a job more than a few months. “Damn co-workers, always fucking my shit up” is how they both characterized their chronic unemployability.

It was a cloudless Saturday night when they both showed up just after 8pm. They liked working about a block or so from one another and despite the unwritten rule stating that “no Santa Claus should be within eyesight of another”, I let it go. Hobos don’t drop into your lap every day. Well, unless you want them to, after the heart has stopped beating…

After collecting the donation ball and their Santa suits I offered them a bottle of mid-range vodka and offered to meet up with them somewhere. They looked at one another, looked at the bottle and decided that they’d push their suspicions off to the side. “Let me finish up here and I’ll join you at Findlay’s Park just down the street. Just save me a couple of swigs. I haven’t touched the stuff for over a month.” Calculations were made involving levels of drunkeness, money in wallets and two against one scenarios. They agreed.

They were about half way through the bottle as near as I could tell when I spotted them from behind. As I crept up behind them Joe said, “Ah, let’s leave him alone. We can get another bottle out of him and then we’ll decide what to do later”. Good old Joe. I shot him in the back of the head from about ten feet away. The bullet exploded out of his eye socket and as he fell to the ground Vern took off running. This might present a bit of a problem ordinarily but the guy was a half-drunk 60 something guy and I had done more than a little bit of extra work on the treadmill for the last two weeks. I shot him in the left buttock for fun and then pounced on him. I had selected my favourite Bowie knife for this kill and its ivory handle felt good in my hands as I severed his carotid. No need to wait for the inevitable. I jogged back to the bench and lay Joe’s body on it.

The words came back to me, “maybe he’s dead on a park bench somewhere”. I smiled.

TO THE GAME!

Philly/Rams:

If the Eagles have anything left in the bank account of motivation they should spend it all here. Doubt that happens though.

Salt and vinegar peanuts are the best.