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Instant Karma

The Universe strives for balance. Tit, meet tat. Up, time to get down.

Instant karma gonna get ya all right. John Lennon wasnt fucking around.

Instant Karma by Paul Greenberg

This is the neighborhood where shopping carts go to die. That was the thought I had as I sat in my Chevy, casing the Quick Mart across from the park. If you could call it a park; it was big as a donkey’s dick and there was one broken bench to sit on. The other adornments were cigarette butts, lottery tickets and dog shit. The triumvirate of the working poor. I’m sure that if dog shit were redeemable for a nickel someone would be out here picking it up.

I had watched a steady flow of customers come in and out of the Quick Mart for the past three hours. Mostly carrying what looked like twelve packs and pint bottles in paper bags, along with the occasional carton of cigs. When I had mentally calculated $800 I pulled the car in front of the store in a space closest to the door and readied myself for my pregame ritual.

I took a deep breath and had a good fucking cry. The girl from the Quick Mart was giving me the big eye from the window, but who gives a fuck. A good cry cleanses my soul and rids me of all my bullshit. A good cry is better than going to confession or Zen or TM or primal scream therapy. For me a good ten minutes of bone-shaking, gut-wrenching weeping makes all the difference. I do it and then I’m ready for the task at hand.

I exited my car, put a finger to one nostril and shot off a gigantic snot rocket. Then I entered the Quick Mart. I looked around, swung to my right and put a bullet in the head of the maggot flipping through the pornos, swung to my left and the gal at the register was already loading a bag with cash for me.

I took the cash and a couple of protein bars for the ride. Listened to the silence for a few seconds, gave the gal a two fingered salute and hit the road.

I don’t know how the cops got onto me so soon but I had two cruisers surrounding me by the time I got to the first traffic light out of town.

I gave it up and they brought me to jail, booked me and walked me to my cell. I had a lot to think about. This wasn’t one of my smartest heists. I’m probably not getting out of this one. Maybe I’ve popped my last big boner. Shit, I’m going to Hell, that’s one thing that I did know. That’s where I’ll finally get my taste of karma.

I was about to stretch out on the cot when I heard two sets of feet slapping the concrete. My cell opened and the guard pushed in a six-foot-seven, four-hundred pound-bruiser, uglier than my mother’s tits.

The guard said, “Here you go Hymie, meet Mr. Sensitive. He likes to sit in his car and cry right before blowing someone’s head off. Nice guy. You’ll love him.” The cop locked the cell and walked off. Hymie stood over me kind of swaying back and forth until he finally said, “Sensitive huh? That’s so sweet.” And he pulled down the fly of his pants. Talk about instant karma. I couldn’t help but cry.

Paul's crime fiction can be found at Shotgun Honey, All Due Respect and Thrills, Kills and Chaos. This is his sixth story for Out of the Gutter. He will be reading at Noir at the Bar-Boston August 27, 2015.