Today is Monday, U Fuck

The bullet punched through the window and buried itself in the kitchen wall, six inches from where I keep the good whiskey. Pete Mulligan paces that exact route every Tuesday night, counting cash between those beady rat eyes. Been doing it for three years. Never missed a Tuesday.

I grabbed my phone. "U fucked up. It was TOMORROW. Tuesday. Today is Monday, u fuck.” I texted Sal.

No response. Typical Sal—trigger-happy and willful since high school.

  The draft from the broken window scattered bills across my kitchen floor. The third "accident" this month. First my car, then the mailbox, now this. Sal doesn't make mistakes; he makes statements.

  No way I'm paying him ten grand. In fact, he's buying me a new window. And spackle. And bulletproof glass this time.

I poured myself a Schlitz, the cheap stuff I save for bad days, and checked the mousetrap under the sink. Empty again. Little bastard probably watched the whole thing from some hidden crack, whiskers twitching with glee.

"Least you know when to disappear," I muttered.

I pressed my finger into the bullet hole. Still warm. Too close.

Tomorrow is Tuesday. Pete will be here with his canvas bag and his questions about the missing money. The mouse will hide. Sal, you fuck, you better be waiting.

I'm starting to think I make bad choices. It started with trusting Sal in sixth grade. It'll probably end with him, too.