Mr. Cannon hushed when I told him the man would probably kill him if he didn’t shut up, but I honestly don’t think he knew what was happening to him anymore. The skin on his face had the blank, yellowish color of buttermilk, and he kept blinking his eyes and grinding his teeth. His leg was a gob of red mush below the knee, the foot turned nearly backwards. On first sight, my stomach rolled over. Bile seeped up to the back of my tongue. I didn’t know what all I could do about this with a roll of tape. Blood cooled in a puddle around him, stinking like burned metal. I did my best to stop him from bleeding anymore. Duct tape doesn’t work well with wet surfaces. It kept sliding away. Finally, I pulled out the belt from his dressing gown and tied off his leg above the knee. His boy business flopped about as I tried and tried to twist the tape around his ruined calf. I put as much pressure on the wound as I could. Bright yellow fat oozed out. Finally, I got the idea to tie the tape in a knot around his leg and then wrap it. When I yanked the tape tight, he moaned until his face went slack. Then he fell against the wall with a heavy thud. I would of thought him dead but for the vein twitching on his forehead. This was a small mercy for both of us.
In the living room, my mom said she was a nurse and asked if she could tend to Mr. Cannon. Nothing happened, so I guess the answer was no. Logan snored. His right hand flexed and relaxed. The butter knife lay a few feet away. I snatched it up and tucked it into the other side of my waistband from the phone.
“You about done with fatty?” The man appeared at the doorway to the living room half a beat after I smoothed my T-shirt down over the knife. The rifle rested in the crook of his elbow. His eyes moved about the hall. When they found my face, I wanted to run. They were bright and blank and terrible. He shook a fistful of shoelaces at me. “Time to move this show outside. Smells like shit in here.”
I didn’t notice the smell until he said it. Then I couldn’t smell anything else. At first I thought it might be coming from me, but no, Mr. Cannon had shit himself. Maybe when he passed out. His one remaining sock was smeared in it. The other foot had stayed bare and pink and clean.
“Come on, then. I got a chore for you.”
“Are you Butthole Gibbs?” The words came out at the same moment I shaped the thought.
Instead of shooting me, he laughed a new laugh. It sounded like someone balling up newspaper.
“Yeah.” He smiled. His left dogtooth was a bluish color. “But how about you call me Leon?”