The Untimely Death of Jimmy Gums by Brandon Meyers

It takes damned little effort to pull a trigger.
    The slightest twitch of only a few muscles in a single finger can end a life. This was something that Jimmy “Gums” Viglione realized in the final brutal moments of his natural time on Earth. Looking down the cold, nickel-plated barrel of Tommy Zatel’s Smith and Wesson .45 automatic pistol, Jimmy knew that he had reached the end of the road.
    A sole halogen lamp blazed down from the rafters, leaving the dusty warehouse floor illuminated, a fitting stage for the final bloody act in the life of one of the deadliest hired killers Chicago’s streets had ever seen.
    Jimmy did not find Jesus. Nor did he reach any grand fortune cookie epiphanies of enlightenment on the meaning of life. No, Jimmy Gums had been on the opposite end of this fatal transaction enough times before to know that any such comforting final notions did not serve to allay the eventual splatter of brain matter on the walls. Whining and pleading were repulsive. Even kneeling at the stoop of death’s door, the thought to beg for mercy never once crossed his mind.
    Please don’t let ‘ em find a wormy corpse. That was the final culminating thought of Jimmy’s forty-six years of life before Tommy Zatel, at the wave of his brother, gave the trigger a squeeze.
     
    “Heavy son of a bitch, ain’t he?” Tommy asked as he struggled to fit the feet-end of Jimmy Gums’ bulky body into the trunk of the Lincoln Continental.
    “Fat fuck didn’t miss any meals,” William grunted. “That’s for sure. Here, fold his legs up so I can…yeah, like that.” He spit out his cigarette and coughed.
    With a little creative maneuvering, the brothers managed to get Jimmy’s pudgy body wrenched into the trunk compartment.
    William wiped a bead of sweat off his brow, cast one last look around the abandoned industrial complex, and slammed the trunk lid, sealing away the dead man into the closest thing he would ever have to a coffin.
    With half their job done, the two sibling enforcers climbed into the car and set out for their favorite dumping grounds, talking of broads and booze. William did most of the talking. His brother, while good with a gun, had unfortunately not been endowed with even a shameful amount of brains, and therefore contributed little to a conversation.
    The sedan rolled at a smooth pace down the highway, a sleek chauffer to the dead making its final midnight pass into the territories of darkness. At that late an hour, on the outskirts of town, the men passed only a handful of cars. And not a single one of those a police cruiser: always a reassuring thought on the conscience of travelers in possession of human cargo.
    There was only one small problem with the situation. Despite all outward appearances (immobility and the mess of blood and viscera), Jimmy Gums was not dead. His heart yet pumped at a drastically slowed pace. His muscles displayed the faintest amount of tension and relaxation when the Continental bounced over potholes, jostling his stowed body. And his mind—what was left of it—had but one image burned into it by way of muzzle flash: the faces of Tommy and William Zatel.
    “That was easy,” Tommy said. “Easy as…well, that was easy.”
    William cocked an eyebrow at his simpleton brother and hooked a thumb toward the now full trunk of the car. “Let me tell you something, Tom. No matter what that chubby bastard might look like now, he was one sick fuck.”
    Tommy’s eyes darted nervously from his lap to the road. He hoped his brother was too preoccupied with handling the wheel to notice his guilt. “The teeth?”
    “Yeah,” William agreed, distaste clear in his words. “The teeth.” He shuddered at the thought of the necklace. “How the hell you think he got the name Jimmy Gums?”
    Tommy sat in silence, pondering the thoughts of a man whose mental hamster has not just stepped off its wheel, but jumped off the side of a fucking cliff.
    “Tommy…hello? Jesus, are you awake?