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"Sorry--the dog got the last one."
The big bloody greedy guts! I think, but I can't hold it against him. Dogs will eat anything. I can't argue with nature.
In any case, I try to catch them out.
I fire.
One quick question.
"Who sent you?"
Once in the air, my question loses its pace. The words float, and gingerly I stand and sit at one of the vacant kitchen chairs. I'm feeling a little more comfortable, knowing this is all part of what happens next.
"Who sent us?" The other one takes over now. "Nice try, Ed, but you know we can't tell you that. Nothing would give us greater pleasure, but we don't even know that ourselves. We just do the job and get paid."
I explode.
"What?" It's an accusation. Not a question. "No one pays me! No one gives me--"
I'm slapped.
Hard.
He then sits down again and resumes eating, dipping the last crust of pie in the big pool of sauce on his plate.
You overpoured, I think. Thanks a lot.
He calmly eats the crust, half swallows, and says, "Oh, do stop whining, Ed! We all have our duties here. We all suffer. We all endure our setbacks for the greater good of mankind."
He's impressed his mate and himself.
They're agreeing with each other, nodding.
"Nice," the other one tells him. "Try to remember all that."
"Yeah, what was it? The greater good of...?" He thinks hard but can't come up with what he wants.
"Mankind," I answer, too quiet.
"What, Ed?"
"Mankind."
"Of course--you got a pen I can borrow, Ed?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"This isn't a newsagent's, you know."
"And there's that tone again!" He stands up and slaps me even harder, then sits back down, casual.
"That hurt," I tell him.
"Thanks." He looks at his hand--at the blood and the dirt and the smear. "You're in a pretty awful state there, Ed, aren't you?"
"I know."
