Bordeaux
by Adam Moorad

Cannibal Benny arrived home from the mill with a backache pulsing deepin his spine. The pain throbbed from the neck down to the shoulders, to the kidneys, to the buttocks, to the thighs, and feet.  His peasant wife, who was watching television in the den, with a lit cigarette eking fume from the ashtray, said, without taking her eyes off the screen, Hey there – yalook sleepy mista.  The neighborhood was full of its usual sounds: grumbling engines in the street, kids barking like dogs in the alley, dogs barking too, in the distance a siren cries softly.  Why dontcha take ah load off, his peasant wife said, Pull off them cruddy boots and relax fo'ah min.

He went into the garage, the only place in the house where he felt at home, and, like always, did nothing but spin the chamber on his old revolver, pressing his calloused hands against the cold cylinder, listening to the click-click-click.  I am a good man, he told himself. He opened the refrigerator in the corner but didn't feel like drinking anything.  Nothin' he here gonna fix dis ache ah mine, he told himself.  He was only waiting.  How bout somethin' ta eat – I bet you're purty hungry, his peasant wife's silhouette appeared at the
door, Should I put on de stove?

His peasant wife whipped the cheap meal up Southern style.  Their children had grown up.  He and his peasant wife had grown lazy.  It's dem biscuits you like, she said, moving feebly on her feet, stopping to cough up a cud of phlegm.  Cannibal Benny heard his peasant wife speak, but he did not listen.  He ate with his fingers and, as usual, his swollen knuckles ached.  His peasant wife used her knife and fork. Their spoons lay unused.  This never stopped her from setting them out.

Wanna take ah walk with me? he asked her.  He knew she wouldn't want to go if it meant she had to be outside.

Dunno why you gotta have ah walk every night if yo'backs achin' ya so much – But I suppose you gettin' some exercise and dats good – I just don't like goin' out dis time ah night is all – Aint safe out there fo'ah lady.

It was dark now, and the street had quieted except for a pack of neighborhood kids climbing and jerking the chain link fence outside. Cannibal Benny hollered and shooed them away, then watched the little gang wander off down the street beneath the blue streetlights, cussing and spitting, kicking pieces of debris across the road.  This episode left Cannibal Benny slightly irritated, but when he looked up the street he saw the soft halogen glow across the way, the streetlights softly illuminating the tawdry, gravel block.  He could smell the river stinking from over in the dark and felt his heart flutter with exhilaration.  He set off down the street.  It was the prize hiding somewhere along road that propelled his pace and he slowly began to forget the pain in his bones.  As always, he always left without
knowing who he was looking for or where he would find them.  It had to be someone who looked like they were from the hood, a hood with more hobo than homes.  Not a white boy – can't be trusted – Ah Mexican would do, or an Arab…

He saw a shadow flicker behind a row of stony shrub, the usual type of place.  What it a man or an animal?  There isn't much difference when you think about it.  He began to grow tense.  It always happened that way, and he even liked it – the sense of excitement was stronger.  He moved around the corner and found a boy.  It's probably gonna be him, Cannibal Benny thought, Even though boys are less exciting because they are weaker – haven't had the time to harden.  The boy was leaning against a wall behind an abandoned bus stop with his hands held behind his back.  He wore either his letterman jacket or one he stole.  He had his head up and kept a sly eye on the end of the street, looking for customers and watching for cops – sometimes they were one and the same.

There were lampposts every twenty yards or so along the sidewalk. Cannibal Benny scoped the road and thought, Ah problem only if there's anyone around to see - Which there ain't.  There never was.  He put his hands into his pockets and moved towards the boy, into clear view, revealing himself slowly so to not arise suspicion.  Their eyes met and Cannibal Benny smiled.  I like your diamond earrings, he said, Know where I can find me some crystal like dat?

The boy looked down the block again, peeked over his shoulder coolly and grinned back at Cannibal Benny.  Yeeh, he said.  The boy only realized Cannibal Benny was going to shoot when he saw him take a step back to aim.  He was hit once in the shoulder and once in the chest, the instant kill shot, right in the lungs – a bull's-eye.  Cannibal Benny felt the impact of the report on his wrist, and, the shots still echoing, felt the sting in his ears. He fell on the boy and cleaned him out, crack and cash, then motored down the road.  Cannibal Benny was a cripple but could move when he needed.  He stopped and turned and could see the boy's body lying lifeless on the concrete, covered in black blood which trickled out and congealed in the cracks across the sidewalk beneath the streetlights.

Back in the garage, he took a long look at his gun.  He ran his fingers lightly along the barrel and trigger with pride.  Few people in the world know the relationship between a poor man and his pistol and his pipe.  He sat in the dark and fired a rocket.  I am a good man, he echoed wantonly. The pain inside him evaporated.

His peasant wife was asleep in front of the television and blinked when she heard him enter. Ya feel betta afta some fresh air? she asked, yawning in the dark.

I'm hittin' the sack, he answered, wanting to crush her skull like a grape, Spect ya could doda same – Tomorrow's another day.

BIO: Adam's writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Underground Voices, SUB-LIT , Paperwall, DOGZPLOT, Titular, Sein und Werden, among other places. He is also a contributor to the Nashville Scene and the Huffington Post.  He lives in Brooklyn and works in publishing. Find him here: http://adamadamadamadamadam.blogspot.com/