the tuna sandwich robbery

while eating
at an outdoor
café, a man approaches
you and asks
for money. you say
that you have
none, not exactly
telling the truth,
you could write
him a check or spare
a few bucks, but
you do have this
sandwich to pay for,
plus tip, and maybe
one more beer before
heading home.
so you say, i'm
sorry, but I don't
have any money to
give you. this makes
him lift his shirt
up to show you his
enormous belly,
and a gun tucked
neatly under it,
on the edge of his
pants and underwear.
oh, you say, startled both
by the stomach and
the gun which
reminds you of something
like a curled
snake. you try to remember
that he's wearing light
blue boxer shorts with
little turtles on them,
a detail for the police,
give me your sandwich he
says fiercely, as you continue
chewing. half? you
say, I kind of
started the other
half. I mean it's got my
germs all over it. what kind
of a sandwich is it,
he asks, his gun still
hanging out of his pants.
tuna, you say, hot peppers,
what the hell, he says.
who eats tuna at a restaurant,
okay, take out the
peppers and wrap it
in that napkin. give me that
damn pickle too.
he takes it and walks
away, pulling his shirt
down. you hear him
mumbling about tuna,
and what the world
has come to.