Devil With a Gun by M. C. Grant

down onto the table. The only escapee is the top half of the bun that, like a miniature flying saucer that’s low on fuel, loses altitude and crashes to the floor before reaching our neighbor’s table.
    The businessman laughs with such gusto it’s evident he’s indulged in several lunchtime martinis.
    â€œNice hands,” he says to Pinch, then winks at his companions. “You’d make a good shor t stop for our company baseball team.”
    Pinch removes his hand from the ruined burger and wipes the sauce from his palm on a napkin.
    â€œYou owe the lady an apology,” says Pinch.
    Color rises in the businessman’s cheeks and some of the glass evaporates from his eyes. “It was an accident,” he snarls. “No damage done.”
    â€œThen a simple apology will suffice.”
    â€œLook, shorty, I—”
    â€œWhy do you choose to insult me?” Pinch asks in a calm voice. “I didn’t call you a clumsy buffoon or a drunken asshole or even an arrogant prick. All of which, I might add, seem like a perfect fit. So why—”
    â€œHey, fuck you, midget! I bumped your table, big fucking deal.”
    I try to smooth the waters with a reasonable, “All we wanted was for you to say sorry.”
    Pinstripe glares at me like I’ve just farted in church and blamed the minister.
    â€œFuck you, too, lesbo. I’m tired of you freaks thinking you deserve equal fucking treatment every—”
    The blood suddenly drains from Pinstripe’s face and his throat releases a squeal that expertly imitates a hungry piglet that can’t find its mother’s teat. Pinch has left his chair and is standing with the man’s crotch cupped in his hand.
    Looking over at me, Pinch asks, “Remember what I taught you about the groin?”
    â€œIgnore the penis, always go for the balls?” I answer like the star pupil I am.
    He nods as the man continues to squeal. “And?”
    â€œDon’t tug,” I answer. “Twist and squeeze like you’re juicing a lemon.”
    Pinch rotates his wrist and the man’s squeal hits a pitch so high that it becomes silent. He grabs the table as his eyes roll to the back of his head.
    One of his companions steps forward, but Pinch lifts his free hand and wags one finger. The would-be rescuer stops dead in his tracks, a primitive part of his brain kicking into overdrive to warn him that, in this case, flight is a better option than fight.
    I realize the waitress has appeared with our bill. She barely glances at the squirming suit.
    â€œUmm, I don’t want to call the police,” she says. “But you’re disturbing the other customers.”
    Pinch offers her a thin smile of apology before turning his attention to Pinstripe’s companions.
    â€œI believe your friend would like to pay for our lunch in apology for being such a jerk. Is that your understanding?”
    â€œHe-he’s our boss,” says one of the men. “Not really a friend.”
    Pinstripe finds his voice and utters a guttural moan of undecipherable meaning.
    â€œErm,” continues the man, “but I’m thinking that means he would be happy to buy you both lunch.”
    Pinch turns to me. “Have you had enough to eat?”
    I haven’t, but I nod before adding, “Although I did leave room for dessert.”
    Pinstripe groans again and foamy drool drips from the corners of his mouth.
    â€œBut we could go elsewhere for that,” I add.
    A flicker of a smile creases Pinch’s lips before he turns back to Pinstripe’s employees. “Would you like to take a photo before I let him go? Might come in handy if the economy gets worse and he’s trying to decide who to lay off.”
    â€œUgh, no, that’s okay, thanks.”
    Pinch leans in close to the boss’s agonized face to whisper a final thought before releasing his grip. Upon release, the man’s forehead jerks forward