Louie Louie

By Smokey Throbinson

Mrs. Roper had just been shot down by Stanley for the umpteenth time. It was 9:47PM on a Thursday. Adults have to make tough decisions, but I was confident that splurging for a new color TV over paying those crooks at Ma Bell was the correct choice.

My tube top was at waist level, allowing my newborn son to go to town for dinner at Chez Mammarie.

Uninvited, a man, best described as a walking mug shot, walks through the front door. He is brandishing a claw hammer. He stands just beyond the threshold, surveying the room.

“Is there something I can help you with?” I say, as if this is business as usual.

“Where’s Louie?” He said.

“I’m sorry, but no one by that name lives here. I think there is a fellow named Louie next door in apartment #203.”

“Louie has my package. I need to get it back.” His grip on the hammer tightens.

“Perhaps you should to go his apartment and ask him nicely for it?”

“That is one way to do it. I have something else in mind.”

I lay the baby in my lap and begin to restore my modesty.

“Can I have a drink?” He quips.

“I’ll get you a glass of water.” I say, while gently laying my son on couch against the back wall, as far away from this intruder as possible.

This man is obviously angry, but he is as unthreatening as someone anxiously wielding a hammer could ever be. Maybe Louie would have a different opinion.

I hand him a tumbler of tap water. He shoots it like cheap whisky and returns the glass to my hand.”

“That is a fine looking baby you have there.”

“Thank you, he is only two weeks old. Now is there something else I can do for you before you leave?” I’m hoping he gets the hint.

“No Ma’am. Thank you for the water. I’ll be on my way.”

I lock the door, close the curtains and grab the biggest knife I can find from the kitchen before barricading my son and I in the bedroom. Unfortunately, this room shares a wall with Louie’s place. I hear his door being kicked in. Then some words are exchanged, followed by the crashing and thumping you’d associate with a struggle. Blood curdling screams end the affair, which I can only assume had something to do with the life extinguishing properties of a claw hammer pounding against bone and flesh. Screams not unlike those I made in that hospital room two weeks ago.

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