At the sound of Koestler’s heavy boots, the nocturnal rustlings of the bush grew still. Koestler could then hear drums from the nearby village. There had been an elephant kill. Somehow his peripheral awareness had picked up on that news at some point during this most incredible day. Elephant kill. House of meat. Cause for celebration. The doctor proceeded into the darkness. The penlight seemed to dim; were the batteries low? Beneath the sound of the drumbeats, Koestler heard a branch snap. He stood stock-still in the middle of it all. He flipped his penlight right and left, and in a low, piping voice, said, “Georgie, Georgie? Where are you, my little pal? Why don’t you come on back home? Come back home to Daddykins.”

Pickpocket

THESE KIDS THAT slashed the top on the Saab (ain’t it a shame, twelve hundred miles on it, a black ragtop, turbocharger, five-disc sound system!), these kids call me Chop-a-Leg, which is what I had done to me. They chop a leg when the foot turns gangrene. I had diabetes twelve years and wouldn’t quit smokin’. My podiatrist warned me the day was drawing near, but I didn’t listen. I was still out there trying to get my kicks. Now I traded the five-speed in for an automatic since when you been chop-a-legged, your prosthetic foot don’t rightly feel the clutch and that can mean smash your ass!

I got a hardtop with a V-6 and these kids calling me Chop-a-Leg raked up the paint job with a blade, so now I don’t have to take care parking it or lay in bed and worry about no ragtop. See, I’m new to the neighborhood and they don’t know who I am. All that shit—“I got a new car, what if it gets nicked?”—is over. I got the problem defused. Those kids did me a favor. I mean I got friends, okay, who could see to it that I could park that car anywhere in the city and nobody but nobody would get near ’cause I’m a stand-up con with connections, but in my old age I find I really do abhor violence, squalor, and ugliness. And I was a kid once. I did stuff like that. So I let it slide and had a talk with those boys. It was a highly effective conversation. There won’t be no more fuck fuck with that car.

The doctors gave me the first diabetes lecture more than a decade ago. They fine-tuned the spiel over the years. There were updates. In one ear, out the other. I figured, You’re gonna die, no matter. But they were right. I got hit with the shortness of breath, blurred vision, borderline kidney function, a limp dick, and armpits so raw I got to use Tussy Cream Deodorant or go aroun’ with B.O. Is that Tussy like fussy or Tussy like pussy? Heh heh.