Not Cyanide

I was sitting there, watching this "waiter" reach out and completely botch a glass pickup. Really, I thought. All you got to do is walk out here, pick up the glasses, and walk away. But this guy comes out, looking everywhere, sighing, stretching, itching his nose, adjusting his pants. It's like amateurs on parade today. The death of the arts. Is this why the Italians make such good badguys. They have some hootzpah and can fake anything. Method, man, or take a class, or come in drunk, or anything.

And yet, I keep thinking, all I have to do is drink this. All i have to do is pretend I'm as stupid as their operative over there thinks I am. My two guys followed him here. They will kill him when he leaves. And yet.

This morning, I'll admit, I had a bit of a collision with my desk. I was in a great mood, I mean meeting this girl from the internet dating service I found here. Pretty excited. It's lonely going underground. Sure, you get the hoochie-mamas as they call them in the black gang films. Here I don't know the term. But they pet their hair, stare at you, pout their lips, and do it with anything that's moving goods.

So, to cut a story short, I have to take these pills twice a day. They say a brain infection is the worst. You don't even know about it and then one day you wake up and you can't think. And this doesn't help you figure it out. In any case, while considering taking the poison, I pulled my pill out to pop it. Doctor's orders.