Tommy Guns

“Someone’s coming. Round the corner. Come on.”

“Okay, okay, I’m moving.”

“Look natural.”

“How does one do that, pray tell?”

“I don’t know, light a cigarette or something, I don’t care. Quick, he’s coming. Nod his way.”

“Generalmajor, good evening.”

“Is he gone?”

“Think so.”

“That was close.”

“Too close. We’ve gotten sloppy. Need to be more careful from now on, I reckon.”

“Yeah, starting with you learning to whisper Rueds. You’re far too loud.”

“Oh? I thought you liked that?”

“Jesus, Ruedi, now is not the time.”

“Then when is? We could die at any moment. Surely we should live in the now, not the future?”

“I mean yes but…”

“Nah, no buts. Unless it’s my butt.”

“Ruedi!”

“Sorry. Shutting up now.”

“Stop wiggling your eyebrows and act like an adult, you doofus.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re living our lives under a microscope and you’re like one of those things that identifies cancer to doctors. I can’t remember what they’re called. The colour-change things. Nuclears?”

“I think you mean nuclei. And they don’t change colour or scream about cancer either, idiot. It takes years to study that shit.”

“My apologies, arschloch.”

“Hey, ain’t your fault you’re thick as a row of planks stuck together.”

“Rude.”

“Ruedi, actually.”

“You’re a dork.”

“An attractive dork though, right?”

“I guess.”

“I’ll take that.”