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Yolky ar the Warhol Museum

Paxson took the gun and got out of the car. He zipped his coat to the collar. Paxson, explaining the job to Gus, had gotten through to himself. In Gus' face he had seen ignorance and stupidity and he wouldn't see his own face like that. The face of the fresh employee, the sneak, the fearful underling, the dumbass, the douche bag, the women leaning over washbasins so men like Gus could subscribe to their websites and come into toilet paper. The man intimidated by a toothless shopper from Tyrone trying to return a bag of apples-that fearful man had been Paxson. But no longer. No way. No more. He would do it. He would change. He jogged towards the lime-green building where apartment #22 was, recalling the details he's been given: that Lee worked late nights at a fitness club; in the mornings he went to class and worked as a teaching assistant at the University of Pittsburgh; he slept in the late afternoon and evening. There was a cat. At the bottom of the stairs he started shaking again. He took a deep breath. That air was cold. The gun was inside his coat. He climbed the dark stairs and wanted to have to look around some more to get to the apartment but found himself right at the door. Number twenty-two; the brass numerals tarnished and on the door the remains of a bumper sticker~omestic violence now. He took another deep breath, felt the cold close his throat, glanced toward the parking lot. He was here to set an example. It would take all of ten seconds, walk in and pop him. It really wasn't a big deal; people die all the time, and the difference was that this person had been warned. Another deep breath, another look back, and then he twisted the knob. The bolt clicked. He closed his eyes. He could go back, but he didn't. He wouldn't. No way, no more. He opened the door. He opened his eyes. It was dark. He stood still and waited for his eyes to adjust. He reached into his coat for the pistol. All the lights came on; every light in the apartment. He was sure he was about to die in an ambush. People yelled in unison: surprise! Then they stopped yelling and grumbled. Oh, shit, it isn't him. A woman came scrambling from the kitchen and squatted and held out her arms with fire-blackened wooden spoons in her fists and really let the word go. Surprise, she screamed, for ten seconds, well after the others had realized the mistake, then she looked at Paxson and looked at the other people at the party and someone started laughing and ceased. There was the smell of cake baking, of cat litter, reminding Paxson of the supermarket, baking needs and pet supplies in the same miserable aisle: aisle six. A bosomy girl put music on. Summer - Fall 2006

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Profile for University of Idaho Library

Fugue 31 - Summer/Fall 2006 (No. 31)  

The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho

Fugue 31 - Summer/Fall 2006 (No. 31)  

The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho