"Who shot you, Joe?" I asked, as he lay in a pool of blood.
"Tattoos...arm...three...half-moons." His last words, forever.
Vowing revenge, I searched flophouses, bordellos, honky-tonks, but didn’t see any half-moon tattoos.
Then my grandma’s car broke down. A Bingo fan, she asked me to drive her to the Bingo hall. While there, somebody’s great-grandma yelled "Bingo!" I gasped when I saw the lucky winner’s flabby, wrinkled arm decorated with three half-moons. I went to her table, and whispered in her ear, "I know you’re the bastard who robbed and killed my friend. Why’d you do it?"
"For Bingo money," she said. "I’m addicted. When I robbed him, he made a fuss. So, I put a bullet in his gut. But you’ll never prove me guilty. So get lost, punk, or I’ll put a bullet up your ass."
Next day, I broke into the Bingo hall. Replaced a ball with one containing high explosives.
That night, I waited for the killer to enter the hall. When somebody yelled "Bingo," I dialed 3-M-O-O-N-S on my cell phone detonator.
Over a hundred grannies died, including mine. But they were old and useless to Society. I’m sure if they knew why they were sacrificed, they’d pat me on the back and call me a hero.
I found the killer’s severed, tattooed arm in the rubble. I put it in a plastic bag and laid it on Joe’s grave.
I imagined him smiling.
submitted at 5:53pm
4 June 2009
Michael's stories have been published by 108 magazines and 30 anthologies.