by Steve Potter
Blind Mary had some of the boys over for dinner. Twitchy McFiddles and his brother Stinky were there. So were Stupid Larry and Big George and Cannibal Jim and Egbert. Real John was there but Big John was not invited. Neither was Lenny.
They were having a fine time drinking the dandelion wine Egbert made in the basement apartment he rented below the machine shop on DeLuger Street right up the block from Lou’s Pub.
“Well you sure do cook better than you see, Mary,” Sketchy said.
Mary goofed for laughs, stuck out her tongue and groped the air with her splotchy hands, turning her head this way and that. Everyone laughed. They were all having a grand time until Stupid Larry piped up.
“Whose finger is this?” he asked. There was a pinky in his soup spoon. The tender white meat was cooked and peeling from the bone, but it was still quite obviously a human finger. A little one.
“God damn it.” Cannibal Jim slammed his spoon on the counter. He turned his head and hocked a loogie out the window.
“Son of a bitch, if I ever find out who…” someone down the street shouted.
“Shut up and eat!” Mary said, glaring at Stupid Larry with her milky white right eye and empty left socket.
The gang got quite, the mood sullen. Sketchy figured a way to cheer things up.
“You meant was, Larry. Whose finger was this.”
They all laughed. Egbert popped the cork of another bottle and filled everyone’s glass. They set back to eating and never mentioned the pinky again.