One Born Every Minute

I like to whistle. Something about little diddies made up of my breath helps to calm me when I’m sad. Invisible music.

I am sad today, and I’ve been sad for the last few days. I’ve lost my puppy, Mr. Scraptastic.

He’s fond of trashcans and sewer lines. He’ll run for miles after a ball and sleeps inches from and within my heart.

I whistle “How Much is that Doggy in the Window.”

I see some guy dressed in clashing dacyron looking in a trashcan across the street. God damn he is ugly.

“Hey we about ready to go?”

“Yeah Gritz, let’s go.”

“So we gots ourselves a target?”

“I think I just found one.”


“That faggy butterfly across the street…”

“What’s he doing? Is he fooking whistlin’?”

We cross the street. Gritz tightens his fingers around the grip of the bat. I shift my knife to my right hand.

I like to whistle. I wish somebody would come help me look for my puppy.

Here comes two guys now…

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