The Dinosaurs

In Joe’s I only order drinks by the bottle and I always offset a dirty, chipped glass at each placemat to discourage new friends.

Tonight I was drinking hard and toteming matchsticks while my gears chewed the Maylaw murders.

Dirk’s meat grinders slid in opposite me, all null grins and gorilla knuckles. Because of the bulges in their jackets, I kept my hands open and easy on the table.

Knuckles One flexed somewhere deep in his chest and nudged Knuckles Two, smirking, reaching.

Like smooth silver I poured one slug, and another.

Their heads hitting the table scattered my matches.