Pulp
Saul sat flat against the wall with his pants in a definite twist. Manacles fit to shackle an elephant locked his wrists to the radiator behind him - a loving embrace of skin, steel and quality plumbing. What’s worse he’d been experimented on with some seriously post-modern violence - everything hurt. Some sick puppy had even untied his shoelaces.
Shifting to get a better look at his new digs was proving tricky, moving his head felt like unscrewing his spine. Gritting his fine set of fifth avenue dentures he gave the room a once over. To his left lay a stack of stout planks, a number of which had been crafted into what could plausibly be a very solid coffin. On his right hand was a headstone with the name ‘Saul Temple’ embossed by a beautiful, if disinterested, hand. An inscription beneath this illustrious title read, ‘Every dog has its day.’ The stone lent against a staircase and some kind of portable privy, not exactly en suite. Saul groaned. Being locked up six feet under someone’s kitchen is one thing. But having your acute sense of impending doom reinforced by a concrete obituary really kills the sense of suspense.
Somewhere up above a whistler took up a familiar tune. Fat lips moved up and down the saliva scale, something patriotic, the lost melody of a flag falatting cadet. Temple was just preparing to join in the chorus when the songster stopped abruptly and announced himself with a kick to the door.
I guess you could say he was your average kind of Joe. Except his name wasn’t Joe and he was holding a large automatic.
“I like the tune but your voice ain’t gonna win no grammys.”
The man who wasn’t Joe looked sourly at Saul’s sprawled three piece suit and Saul’s grinning three piece face.
“Time’s up Temple. You’re looking at the last gun you’re gonna see this side of the pearly gates.”
