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She got up. She had to fish the bullet out before she got blood poisoning. Just like making hamburger patties, she told herself.
Ignore the juice, squeeze around the meat.
She grabbed the bullet between thumb and index fingers. More blood. Meat juice. She looked at the little gold bullet haloed in the streetlight, thought of vibrators and cat toys. She lobbed it against the brick wall. It exploded into pink and yellow fireworks. She made a wish.
She wished she was home listening to records, something with lots of
wah-wah strings. Fifteen violas and a stand-up bass. Her arm bled
faster without the bullet stopping it up. She popped some watermelon
gum from her purse, chewed until the first sugar burst passed, plugged
the hole.
A man rode in on a horse, backing her into the alley. Who are you? I
am the man who shot you. For what? So you could have a wish.
She latched on to the man's jacket, pulled herself atop the horse.
Take me to a castle, you son-of-a-bitch. Too late. You already made
your wish. But I can drop you off at the Laundromat.
He reigned in at Bubbleland, handed her a fistful of quarters. For the
stain stick you will most assuredly find in the vending machine,
madam. And a candy bar? That, too.
She disrobed, sat on a plastic chair and watched the blood spinning
out of her dress. Water clouding rust, she tilted her head and hummed
to the faint string music playing over crackly speakers. She chewed
peanuts and nougat into pleasant mush inside her mouth. Just like
making hamburger patties.
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