Moon Pie

by Tabitha Wilson

I can barely see through the gloom of my dark hair. Hooking both thumbs, I create a great divide and my giant moon of a face appears. Without moving my head, I observe the person sitting next to me. She’s wearing knee socks ­even though I get the feeling she’s in her 30’s, and I can hear her jaw clicking as she chews on a stick of gum. Juicy Fruit. Her ring-laden fingers are tapping her thighs to no apparent melody or rhythm. I wonder if she’s nervous.

She’s a blonde.

The train slows and she jumps up. Bellhaven Town Center. It’s dusk when we exit the train and there’s nobody else getting off. She bounces down the long, concrete stairway beneath the tracks. For 30, she’s got some kick. I follow her down into the darkness that is weakly lit by the wan fluorescents. My soft-soled shoes make very little noise as I touch each step going down and my hand slides easily down the cool of the metal handrail. She’s down there somewhere.

I finger the blade in my pocket. A six-inch switchblade. It is my favorite. My mother used to worry about my obsession with knives but she doesn’t anymore. When I reach the bottom, I head toward the exit gates. She is just out of sight, but I can hear her footfalls. The security guard in the bulletproof glass booth is sound asleep with a bottle of booze in his hand so I hop over the gates. I head left, toward the way out and stop short. The blonde is holding a gun. She’s pointing it at me.

“Empty your pockets, you ugly moon-pie looking motherfucker.”

 I carefully take out my wallet, which contains nothing but a subway ticket. I show her my pants pockets are empty.

“Toss it over here. Empty your coat pockets, fuck face, and quit fucking around. I got shit to do.”

I throw her my wallet. She rips through it in no time, finding only my ticket stub. Furiously, she whips it to the ground.

“Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of moon-pie motherfucker walks around with an empty wallet? Toss me your coat!”

My coat. I don’t want to give it to her. Mostly, I don’t want her ringed little fingers wrapped around my blade. I put my hands up, as a surrender motion, and then begin to unzip my jacket. It is made of black wool and has a high-zipping collar. As the zipper comes down, it unveils the surgical hole in my throat.

She gasps. “Fucking disgusting!” she screeches at me, standing in her knee socks and waving that pistol around. “I think I’m going to fucking puke. Fucking moon-pie motherfucker with a fucking hole in his fucking throat.”

I remove the coat and stand there holding it. I don’t want to let it go.

 Looking like she ate a hamburger made of mealworms, she lashes out, “No fucking way am I touching that motherfucking coat that was touching your disgusting neck. Empty the pockets! Now!”

Reaching into one pocket, I pull out my electrolarynx and hold it up for her to see.

“What the fuck is that? Is that a fucking pager? Do you have a fucking pager, you dumb holey moon-pie fuck?”

I bring the electrolarynx to the hole in my esophagus and metallically vibrate, “It is called a throat back. So I can speak.”

“Oh my God!” she howls. Her face is pink now, the blood just under the surface. She is screaming at me still, shouting and punctuating her words with the gun as I am reaching into the other pocket.

“I fucking give up. Get away from me, you fucking disgusting moon- pie fuck!”

She turns to leave but I am fast. The snick of my blade opening is the most satisfying sound in the world to me. I can feel the blood in my veins moving strong and sure now, the air around me making way for my intentions. My right arm quickly encircles her golden-clad skull and my left elbow easily knocks the gun out of her hand. It clatters to the concrete as I twist her arm behind her until it neatly snaps. She struggles—she does have kick—but as the blade parts the flesh and tendons of her neck I can feel her sinking to the earth. Hot streams of blood are ribboning over us, embracing us lovingly like a mother’s enduring hug. I bask in the moment, taking in the sharp smell of iron and Juicy Fruit in the air. As she fades away, I release.

She drops to the ground with all the grace of a bag of wet clay and I step over the mess. I put my coat back on, covering my bloody shirt and zip it up to my chest. Before exiting, I turn back to the pile of meat in silly knee socks, lift the electrolarynx to my throat and say, “Moon pies are motherfucking delicious…”

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Tabitha Wilson is a writer and graphic designer. She owns a snarky greeting card business called Cardjackers and designs subversive products for Fred and Friends. Her story “Boozer” will be published by Shotgun Honey in December.