Pork Pie

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“I’d like a pork pie,” I said to the old man behind the counter.

“We don’t have any more today,” he said. “We have chicken now. That’s it.”

“Then I will sit here until you have pork pie,” I said.

“We are closing in fifteen minutes,” he said.

I looked at him. I reached over the counter and tried to put my finger on his face, but he slapped my hand away before I got close.

“May I kiss you?” I said. “Open mouthed? It is my goal to kiss men with terrible teeth and ugly tongues open mouthed.”

“Get out,” he said. “We are closed now.”

“I have ten more minutes of this,” I said. I took out a gun, and I took out a knife.

“This gun is from the war,” I said.  “And this knife is from the war, too. First, I brought another kind of knife to the war, but soon I found it wasn’t strong enough for the kind of work I was doing. So I got this knife. This knife held up great in the war.”

The knife was black-so black it could have been wrapped in magician’s velvet.

“This knife would hold up great in you,” I said. I showed the old man the knife. I gave the old man the knife.

“You take the knife,” I said. “I can let you have it because I still have this gun from the war.” He held the knife. I pointed the gun at him. I drifted around the storefront.

“Now, let me give you the gun,” I said.  I gave him the gun. “You have the gun and the knife.”

“Get out of the store. We are closed,” the old man said.

“I will not leave until I have a pork pie,” I said.