a bag of groceries tucked in his arm, the Beretta in the right pocket of his heavy duty
parka, smiled. His beard had come full in, grey, giving him that distinguished look. And
his shaven head, oh Sweet Mother, to shave off all that thick hair?
But what you gonna do?
In the spring, the heat would be off, the heat would be on, weather wise and he could
move to Boca.
The deal done and sealed.
So, a few months to eat, drink some beers, down some hot Jameson, how was he hurting.
Already, in the local Tavern, the proprietress given him that come on look. No sweat,
he’d get to her, thought
‘How sweet it is.’
Managed to get his key in the lock of the cabin, without dropping the grocery bag, got in
tried to balance for the light switch when wham, like he was hit by a fucking mule.
Out.
Came to, naked, tied to the basic wooden kitchen chair, two huge guys looking at him
with almost disinterest.
One had, what?…………a lightening scar on his face, the fuck was with that?
The other was juicing up a power drill.
Scar face moved up
Asked
‘How you like your hot dog?’