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We Are Gathered Here Today
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Willam P. Tandy
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      The Medford police were on their third or fourth pass when the blue convertible pulled alongside the curb. The lot of us mouldering in the mid-day sun on the painted wooden steps of the Whitelandian storefront, over 90 degrees of Fahrenheit, no doubt aroused suspicion, but we had settled into a serious wait and were in no position or mood to consider fault.
      “We’re not taking any shit for this,” Nemetz said. “We agreed to meet at two. That was the deal.”
      “Evil bastard,” I mumbled, looking at my watch.
      Two-thirty, and Best Man was not to be found.
      “Best Man my ass,” said Nemetz.
      “He’s not going to get away with this,” I said.
      “I should have stayed home and watched Young and Anal,” he continued. “I rented part eleven, which is probably the best in the series. There was one part where this girl...”
      “Which one was that?” someone hollered.
      Nemetz and I turned to look.
      JIF. Half-a-block away, getting something from his Jeep.
      “Part eleven,” said Nemetz.
      “What SERIES?” JIF demanded.
      “Young and Anal.”
      “Which one?”
      “Young and Anal,” Nemetz repeated.
      “What?”
      “YOUNG AND ANAL!!”
      I noticed an old woman sitting on her front porch across the street. She, in turn, had clearly noticed us.
      “We should probably keep it down,” someone said.
      “It’s alright,” I insisted. “She was young and anal once.”
      The young couple that had stepped out of the convertible were now passing us on the sidewalk, out for a spot of “quaint” consumerism. Medford is an olde towne with plenty of shoppes lining Main Street for “ye” buying pleasure.
      As they passed our adopted stoop, I was able to focus more clearly on their suburban character: late twenties or early thirties, he in a baseball cap, khaki shorts, polo shirt, she in shorts and a sleeveless summer top that exposed two golden arms already toasted to the shade of mid-summer, terminating in... five slender digits. And that was exactly all, as the other arm, the right one, simply ended.
      Just a stump.
      “Five-finger discount,” I said to Nemetz, but the bizarre spectacle had already stolen his attention.
      “I saw a movie like that once,” he beamed.
      And you don’t own it? I thought.
      “What sort of impact is this going to have on the fisting community?”
      “Just when it was starting to break through,” said Nemetz.
      JIF had returned with a large plastic bag over his shoulder.
      “There he is, “ he said, pointing to the red SUV that was sitting at the stoplight nearby. Gleaming in the afternoon sun, it made the day seem even hotter.
      Another funeral would have sufficed, so far as I was concerned. Over and done in a few hours, the heaviest work being a little dead weight, and if all goes well, there may even be something in it.
      “He’s not going to need this anymore.”
      But this was involved.