Blow Fly

74

THE RINGING OF the officer's feet on the catwalk fades. Jean-Baptiste resettles on his bunk, a stack of clean white paper on his lap. He taps his pen and composes another poetic phrase, unfurling it from his unique mind like a brilliant red flag that waves in rhythm with his pen. His soul brims with poetry. Molding words into images and profundities that roll together in perfect rhythm is effortless, so effortless.

Roll together in perfect rhythm. He traces his graceful calligraphy again and again, bearing down hard with the ballpoint pen.

Roiling together in perfect rhythm.

That is better, he thinks, tapping the pen on the paper again, in rhythm with his inner rhythm.

Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap.

He can slow it down or make it faster or faint or strong, depending on the music of blood he remembers from each kill.

"Rolling, "he starts again. "Mais non."

It all roils together in perfect rhythm.

"Mais non."

Tap, tap of the pen.

"Dear Rocco," Jean-Baptiste decides to write. "You did not dare to mention Poland to the wrong person, of this н can be sure. You are too much of a coward."

Tap, tap, tap.

"But who? Maybe Jean-Paul," he writes to his dead lawyer.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap…

"Hey, Hair Ball! I got my radio tuned in," Beast yells. "Ohhhh, too bad you can't hear it. Guess what? They're talking about your lawyer again. Another itty-bitty little news flash. He left a note, see? It said having you for a client just killed him. Get it?"

"Shut up, Beast."

"Get a life, Beast."

"Your jokes suck, man."

"I wanna smoke! Why the fuck don't they let me smoke!"

"Bad for your health, man."

"Smokin' will kill ya, dumb shit. Says so right on the pack."