Quentin Tarantino

There he stood against the outside wall. His knuckles still dripping with sweat and blood. Indian Moe's head was hanging from his right fist, by a chunk of sweaty black hair, dripping into a carpet of blood that would make a nice welcome sign on the saloon's front porch. It was only a matter of seconds before he would drop flat on the floor, right under the flapping doors. A couple of seconds and the pretty waitress would scream her lungs out. The bartender would shake his head and find his double-barel shotgun under the silver counter. Silence would then become thick in the saloon.

And the waitress wouldn't say a word, not until the corpse would be removed. Her eyes never leaving the rolled ones on Indian Moe's lifeless face. Perhaps she would've known him, they may even have shared a drink. It didn't matter, within seconds Indian Moe's skull would be rolling on the saloon's front porch, tied to this other dead man's clutched fist, erasing her every thought of reliving that memory.

She would stare down at the dead man swimming in his red juice. She would stare until he would become a mere corpse. Just like those cows she used to see, at her uncle's. Dead. Like every piece of roadkill she encountered from her gloomy 2 1/2 to the saloon, all along highway 10. Roadkill, she once thought, is the ultimate symbol of mankind's vanity. We build highways through creeks and rivers. We build faster cars. Faster than horses, faster than the previous cars, faster than sound. And we bitch over who's going to pick that rotting piece of rodent that's been laying in the sun and rolled over a couple of times, off that great strip of tar and white paint. And we hate the very thought of roadkill, because it's nature's intrusion into man's playground. Smart girl. But when a man falls dead onto your front porch, a human head attached to his fist, smart just doesn't quite cut it. It shuts you up is what it does.

Within seconds, Teddy Turkish would hit the wooden planks of Crazy Lou's Saloon with a great bang, his final words would come out of his toothless mouth sounding like a pool filter, and he would find just about enough energy in his neck to turn his head to the street. Unlike what is often heard, he would not see his whole life flashing before his eyes. Only, in an instant, the few days prior to his fatal visit to Crazy Lou's. And what would happen after that, only he and The-Boy-Upstairs would know.

Teddy Turkish would remember how, on Friday, he had lunch with Betty Peacock, one of Cowansville's top shelf dancehall singers. And also one of Morty Finch's gals. Evil Morty Finch, Notorious Morty Finch. She told him she wanted out. Explained how all her life she had wanted to live on a farm, raise children and make pie, how she needed a break. She had stacked a few dimes in a shoebox in the closet of her bedroom, down at the Castel, she could use them to move up north, or down south, accross the border. Vermont was her top choice. Either that or Tremblant, she didn't know. She kept worrying about what Finch would do if he found out. He'll cut my throat, that's what he'll do. Ben non, Teddy replied. She then slipped her hand under the table, onto his thigh. You'll help me, right? Her hand moved up across his thigh, and proceeded to petting Teddy's Theodore jr. through his pants, until the cantine's dull middle-aged waitress came by with a fresh coffee refill.

Upon leaving the cantine, Betty slipped her tongue down Teddy throat, in a great big x-rated-movie Frenchkiss. She called him her little frog, and said goodbye while leaning into a taxi cab. He walked home, just a few blocks down River Street. The walk helped him clear his head. Crossing the bridge, he thought of how he was about to whack the city's biggest crime lord for a horny dancehall singer.