The backstop

We have said it repeatedly
my associates and I.
We had hoped to settle this peacefully.
It really doesn’t have to be this way.

Her small hand fists the wooden shaft

of the cruel implement

a claw hammer, bought yesterday.

Now, let’s start again, shall we?

She goes through the rigmarole

of her banal proposition.

Its sadistic brutality

is worn smooth by repetition.

I am a reasonable person

and I don’t want hurt you

but this deal on the table

is final and unconditional.

She’s said that before, you note.

Each cruel prevarication

means another night spent weeping

in the cells, on a concrete bed.

You can choose to do nothing but

as I say, regretfully

then, we can longer guarantee

the safety of your family.

Or – a faint smile appears – instead

here is the backstop, the plan B.

You can pay us, in full, today.

Now that’s a good deal, hombre!

No answer, nothing to say?

She pulls on black leather gloves.

She is wearing white overalls.

She reaches under the table

and draws out, theatrically

a chainsaw. She tugs the cord.

The small room fills with acrid smoke.

She sets about her butchery

with a cool head. This savagery

is more in sorrow than anger.

Obviously, it’s for your own good –

the shattered nerves, the flying blood.