Fiction 3

"And that dumb, friggin' senator, the one that's a pinko? She'd suck the balls off a Muslim terrorist if it got her what she wanted."

As Jimmy Something-or-other, the kid to Artie Miller's left, rambled on about the rapid decline of American society, Artie threw back the
last of his beer and pounded the bar to signal for a refill. Like ninety percent of Americans, Artie didn't give a crap. He figured that a
small portion of the population consisted of extremists, media, and activists--people whose self-worth and lucrative incomes depended
upon inflaming people like Jimmy. The Jimmy's of the world took their words seriously and became angry and defensive, which wasn't a
problem unless you were stuck in a bar with them, forced to listen to the moaning and complaining while you waited to do a job.

"It's un-American, what they're doing. Trying to take away every right given by the Constitution."

Without first setting down his glass, Jimmy checked his watch. A pool of backwash dribbled into his lap, but the kid didn't even notice.

Artie blocked him out and focused on the reason he was stuck at Telly's Bar & Grill, hours past his bedtime, with a moron who wouldn't
shut up. Artie did odd jobs for people--not the kind of jobs you put on a resume. Every morning Artie bought the Daily Herald from Blind
Bill's newsstand on the corner of Harbinger and Main. He would grab a cup of coffee at the local diner and open up to the sports section.
If an envelop fell out, he was employed.

The instructions in this morning's envelop said to meet someone named Jimmy at eleven o'clock at Telly's. A third party would be along
to tell them what to do next. He snuck a glance at the kid; his jaw was still flapping. Artie liked to work alone. That way, if you wound
up doing time, it was no one's fault but your own. And
vice-versa.

The door swung open and a gust of Chicago cold blew in, carrying with it a large, hairy man with a square jaw and a recently broken
nose. The man's glance took in Artie and Jimmy. He dismissed Jimmy with a snort and slid onto the stool next to Artie.

"I got something that needs moving."

Artie nodded.

"I'll meet you in the alley in ten minutes."

The man peered around Artie and watched as Jimmy poked at his lap with a napkin and muttered about the "friggin' fascists".

"Is Wonder Boy with you?"

"He's part of the package," Artie said with distaste.

The man gave Artie a look that said "you poor bastard" and left.

Ten minutes later, Artie was staring at a finger--the one poking out of the garbage bag at his feet. The digit was grayish and shriveled
and belonged to a man who no longer worried about comfort.

"Where exactly did you want this moved, Big Guy?" he asked the man from the bar, who turned out to be shy about names.

"Is that a friggin' finger?" Jimmy asked, his mouth stuck on open.