Noir

by Christopher Moore

My dear ma was an English teacher, and from the time I squeaked out my first word she steeped me deeply in metaphor, simile, symbolism, alcoholism, and all the various iambs of the poetic tradition, all of which have served me greatly over the years in pouring drinks, welding ships, bird-dogging broads, and waxing poetical on both this and that.

Mrs. Jones leaned into Myrtle conspiratorially. “That man had a dick like a dinosaur.” “Oh Mama!” “You seen pictures of ’em dinosaurs? Just like that. I mean, they don’t show they dicks in the pictures, but you know they big. Man like to split me in two. Don’t get me wrong, I got used to it, but them first few times—well—it was a surprise.”

I reared up, gave him the tongue flick and the little head wave that is the universal signal for “Buddy, I am going to bite the shit out of you.” But did he back off? He did not. Rest in peace, pigeon guy.

on a deserted road with the stars splattered out over me like a suicide’s brains on the ceiling,