Flight and Fancy: Part 4

The Mountebank pointed behind me. “You. Find out who brought Dana-“

“Donna,” Donna corrected.

“Donna,” the Mountebank continued, “And then bring me his duodenum.”

“Yessir,” Donald said from behind me. I heard a door open and for a brief second, what sounded like tap-dancing in the distance, then the door shut.

“And now,” the Mountebank said, as he pulled a straight razor out of his jacket pocket. “The question is what to do with Dina.”

“Donna,” both Donna and I said together.

“Whatever.” The Mountebank flicked the razor open. It probably should not have sounded like a cat puking. He stepped directly behind Donna and lifted her chin with one hand, the razor ready over her face.

“Wait,” I said. “You don’t need to torture, maim, kill, or otherwise inconvenience an innocent woman.”

“I don’t?” The razor began making slow swings above Donna’s face. The saxophone began playing the theme to Jaws.

“Of course not,” I continued. “Even if I may have seemed, how should I say, disinclined to help you that doesn’t mean I may not, at some point in the future, render some assistance.”

“Is that a yes or no?” The razor swooped closer.

“Ummmm . . .”

The razor paused and the Mountebank glanced over at me.

“Maybe?”

“Oh for Pete’s sake!” Donna suddenly said, causing the saxophone to miss a beat. “You,” she continued, with a glare at the Mountebank. “Either use that razor or I’ll shove it so far up your ass you’ll be able to shave your tonsils.”

“And you,” she said, turning to me. “Man up and tell this freak to suck it.”

“I was trying to save your life.”

Donna rolled her eyes. “I work at Iggy’s Buffet. One of our cheese pizzas is more dangerous than ten of him.”

“Really?” the Mountebank said. “Do your cheese pizzas come with razors in them?”

“When the chef’s having a bad day,” Donna replied. “Yeah. And as long as we’re talking, what’s this ‘friends with shooting’ crap,” she said, looking back at me. “Are you or are you not in love with the Dame?”

I tried to shrug, forgetting momentarily that I was handcuffed to a chair. “Well, I don’t dislike her.”

“Wait,” said the Mountebank. “Why is this important?”

Donna nodded towards the door. On cue, I heard it swing open, followed by the click of stiletto heels and the high-pitched bark of a .38 firing.

The saxophone clattered to the floor, accompanied by the unmistakable ‘thud’ of a body hitting the floor, bouncing twice, and then settling with a wheez and a fart.

A quarter rolled out of the newly dead man’s pocket.

“Hi,” the Dame said.

Next: Part 5