The Broken Clock is Right Thrice: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #4

Chapter 27 - 'Gator Po'boy

"Greed makes a man blind and foolish, and makes him an easy prey for death."

~ Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, aka Rumi, 13th century poet and mystic 

Bexley stares at the blood dripping off her arm. "Am I going to die?" is all she can say, over and over again.

"The bullet went right through your bicep, I think," Sunglasses says to Bexley. The gunshot pulled him back into focus. "Someone get a towel. Let's apply pressure. Help her lie down. Bexley, you're going to be alright, but you need to keep still."

The Crocodile is stuck in place, as if he can't quite comprehend what he just did.

First time, huh? Maybe you're more of an amateur than I thought. Probably stuck to fists and intimidation, because those always worked when you're a ragin' reptile.

What a joke. Enjoy the adrenaline dump, asshole.

Rushing footsteps approach the kitchen as Chad makes a reappearance. Knife wobbling in his hand, he hurries to the walk-in freezer door, catching his hips on the sides of counters and knocking pans over in the process. It's a miracle he doesn't cut himself.

Chad looks from Bexley to The Crocodile and back to Bexley.

"What the hell did you do, man?" Chad says, half screaming and half crying.

The Crocodile is silent.

"What did you do?" Chad says again. "What the...holy shit...is...is...she going to die?"

You're a reliable player, Chad. Now do it. Show me where that blade goes.

"It's OK, baby. This is it. This is the trauma. It's a good thing," Bexley says, her voice hoarser than before.

"Hell no, it's not a good thing. You're fucking bleeding everywhere. Holy shit...I...there's...all that blood," Chad says.

Calm down, cupcake. I've seen worse.

The Crocodile remains at a loss for words, frozen in place, revolver still in hand. Zandra relieves him of the gun with a quick twist of his wrist.

"Don't do anything stupid," The Crocodile, now without a weapon, says to Chad.

Whether the jab with the knife is stupid on Chad's behalf is debatable, but it cuts The Crocodile open at the left shoulder. It's a shallow cut, a hesitation cut, but seeing the blood gives Chad a surge of confidence to drive the blade deeper a second and third time. The tiled floor gets slippery with red.

Chad holds the blade up to his face. "I can't believe I just did that."

The Crocodile holds his shoulder and leans back against the walk-in freezer door, moaning.

Good boy, Chad.

With his nose tucked beneath his shirt, Hank fetches another armful of towels for Sunglasses. They toss a couple to The Crocodile.

"They're going to need more than dish rags," Zandra says. "These idiots need a hospital."

Chad, hunched over Bexley's wound, agrees. "Yeah, they'll have to suck the bullet out, I guess."

"You're thinking of a snake bite," Sunglasses says. "And you wouldn't want to suck snake venom into your mouth anyway."

Zandra spots a shattered microwave door about 30 feet behind Bexley. The bullet's trajectory must have terminated somewhere inside the appliance.