“I fucking hate pasta” the man murmured to himself. Well it wasn’t really like he was saying it to anyone else for he was alone in the back of the Italian restaurant, where only the privileged and the prized sat. The man didn’t feel privileged nor prized. He only felt hate. Hate for his pasta.

The room was lavish, in the sense of how an old Italian man from Italy would think the room lavish. The floor with its black and white checkered pattern and gold filigree carpet weaving in and out of itself was clean except for some brown stains near the door to where the other patrons of the restaurant sat, ate and laughed the night away. The walls, adorned with Italian wall sconces mimicking 17th century style, held great murals of the old country along with platters of fruit, beautiful women carrying them, and the young men chasing the women. The seats were elevated booths with red leather and white stitching and, according to the man currently sitting in the one closest the door, highly uncomfortable.

5 more minutes, the man thought as he noticed his plate was half empty with the pasta he hated with a passion.

In its own right, the pasta was actually well received by every other person who frequented the old Italian restaurant. “10/10 would return solely for the pasta” ranted and raved one women who frequented the restaurant every Friday night with her family of four, or so the words were writ in the newspaper nearly every resident of the city received on Sunday mornings.

Fork in left hand, he twirled the handle deftly, spinning the strands until the end where some would lie on top neatly and others would fall astray since they did not quite have the length like the strands adjacent, the man grimaced at the thought of taking another bite. He stared at the pasta wrapped around his fork with a contemptuous sneer and with a look of pure disgust ate the final portion of the disgusting dish, placed his fork on his plate and pushed the plate to the center of the table. As he grabbed the napkin on his lap with his left hand he checked his rather wide, black leather strap watch.

11:13…2 more minutes…

He wiped his mouth with the napkin with one hand, tossed the napkin on his plate and reached for his glass of water that he had barely touched throughout the meal. He felt an itch on his right arm and so redirected his hand to abate the irritating feeling. He readjusted the grip of his right hand, but kept Sharla fixated in the direction of the door. Finger on her trigger he waited. He was reminded of the lyrics from that one Beatles song:

I feel my finger on your trigger, I know no one can do me no harm

which was funny because except for a few songs, he absolutely abhorred the Beatles. He acknowledged them as being talented musicians, no doubt, but he could not stand the fact that whenever he walked through the city that at every corner, everyone and their mother would be blaring a different or same Beatles song. And so, with the exception of Helter Skelter and Come Together, he could not stand the Beatles songs.

He drank his water and set it down. Wiping off the perspiration from the glass on his jeans, he checked his watch once more.

11:14 and 26 seconds…fuck me time goes by too slow…

He began to think about 7 things at once: who he was going to be fucking after he got paid; whether which twin, Betty or Carol, was working the double shift tonight so he would pay the other a visit at their flat on Cabrillo and 8th; how the hell the made those tiny umbrellas they put in coconut drinks on TV and billboard ads; quantum molecular theory and if the universe is just a mirror of itself on multiple size scales; how he was going to fix the 426 Hemi engine on his 68 Charger since he cracked the gasket on his last street race; whether or not he was going to be playing Dungeons & Dragons with his buddies Cherry, Ditz and their girls this weekend or next weekend; a new idea for a tattoo on his left arm next to his 4″ scar and if he could incorporate the scar with it; and finally how much he hated pasta.

He never thought about how he was going to spend his money until his jobs were finished.

The door opened inwards and just as the body and head of another man cleared the opened door, the man sitting down pulled the trigger.

The double barrel of Sharla, the sawed off elephant gun, hit the underside of the old, thick table which made the empty dish, utensils and glass of water on top of the table jump, but not fall over.

11:14 and 56 seconds…fucker…now i’m gonna have to wait another half hour until I can leave…

Footsteps drew closer from behind where the man was facing, but the man kept his face looking at the table where his empty dish lay. He saw from his peripherals two men in the guise of waiters place a tarp beside the man, or what was left of him, put the shredded corpse on top of said tarp, wrap him up and exit stage left, where the boss would be.

Another waiter came to the man seated. “All finished, sir?” he inquired.

The man nodded, but kept his stare a thousand yards away dead ahead of him, even though not 2 yards away was a wall with the old Italian wallpaper depicting a young Italian woman with a platter of fruit and her young Italian male suitor chasing after her.

“Another plate then, compliments of the boss” the waiter stated as he took the plate and walked away to grab the next plate.

The man honestly contemplated using his second shot on the waiter but decided against it so as not to draw the ire of the boss who hadn’t paid him yet.

As the man reloaded the one spent shell with a fresh one he only had one thought on his mind.

I fucking hate pasta…

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