Turtleface and Beyond by Arthur Bradford

Lenore.
    â€œI’m getting better at it,” I said.
    The house had a tidy appearance with an American flag flapping in the wind atop a metal pole. When I knocked on the door we heard noises from inside, but no one came out to see us.
    â€œMaybe we can just leave a note?” I suggested.
    â€œNo, no. We can’t do that,” said Lenore.
    It sounded like someone was moving furniture around in there.
    â€œNo one’s answering,” I said.
    â€œHello?” said Lenore.
    The door flew open and a wiry bald man appeared before us. He was holding a shotgun at his waist. He pointed it first at me and then at Lenore.
    â€œWhat’s the problem here?” he asked.
    â€œI believe we hit your cat,” I told him, pointing at my car back on the road.
    â€œMy cat?”
    â€œRight. It ran out in front of me. I’m sorry about this. Can you put down the gun?”
    â€œIs that your car?” he asked me.
    â€œYes, it is. The cat ran right in front of me,” I repeated.
    â€œHe’s missing his leg,” said Lenore. “He just lost his leg and couldn’t stop in time.”
    This didn’t seem relevant, or a particularly good excuse, but I suppose Lenore was trying to be helpful.
    â€œLet’s take a look,” said the man.
    I thought he meant to take a look at my leg, so I bent down to roll up my pants, but the wiry man poked me with the tip of his gun.
    â€œWhat’re you doing?”
    â€œShowing you my leg.”
    â€œThe cat,” said the man. “Let’s see the cat.”
    We walked back to the car, the man still pointing his shotgun at us.
    â€œDo you think you could put that away?” I asked him again.
    â€œNo, I don’t,” said the man.
    I opened up the trunk and uncovered the dead cat.
    â€œJesus fuck,” said the man.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said, again.
    â€œYou sure are. Where are the keys to this rig?” he asked me.
    â€œThe car keys?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œRight here.” I held them up.
    The man snatched the keys out of my hand and said, “I’m taking these.”
    â€œHold on,” I said. I stepped forward and with surprising swiftness the old man swung the butt end of his shotgun around and struck my leg, the new leg, right where the joint ended. The prosthesis snapped loose and I fell over. I still hadn’t gotten the fittings right. It was embarrassing.
    â€œHey!” said Lenore. The man pointed his gun at her and Lenore put her hands up in the air.
    â€œIt’s just a cat,” she said to him.
    That’s when the man noticed that Lenore had an artificial limb as well. She was wearing her rubber hand, the less practical of her artificial limbs, but of course harder to distinguish. “Aren’t you two a fine pair?” said the man.
    â€œListen,” I said, “I already told you I’m sorry about your cat.”
    The man walked up and yanked off my prosthetic leg. He tucked it under his arm and then said to Lenore, “I want yours too.”
    â€œOh, come on,” I said.
    Lenore removed her arm and handed it to the man. He got into my car and drove away with both of our limbs, the picnic lunch I’d prepared, and that dead cat as well.
    Lenore helped me up and I hopped over to a tree so that I could lean against it.
    â€œThat old shitfuck,” said Lenore.
    â€œAt least we know where he lives,” I pointed out.
    â€œHe better come back here,” said Lenore. She was really mad. With her remaining arm she picked up a rock and threw it down the road in the direction he had gone. Her empty sleeve, the one which had covered up the artificial arm, waved about in the breeze.
    *   *   *
    We waited around for nearly an hour. I found a sturdy stick and used it as a crutch to assist with my walking. Lenore and I examined the man’s house and thought about breaking in but a large dog lay asleep in the living room.