by Noel Osualdini
Two policemen at the door. I wipe a spatter of blood from the glass.
First cop, accusingly: “Haven’t seen your wife around for a while, John.”
“At her mother’s,” I reply. I nudge a cold forelimb out of sight.
“And your kids?”
The hum of a bandsaw from the next room, whining as it hits bone. Stained sawdust at their feet.
“Can I help you two gentlemen with anything?” I venture.
The first cop regards something over my shoulder, points it out to his partner.
The second cop, reading: “Yeah, two barbeque packs and a kilo extra of sausages, thanks.”