Shaking when I walked into his shop,

Thoughts of the beautiful, white Crescent Moon

Lost  in the ebony sky of late November.

Fled like winter sleet melted,

The glint of the knife on that coal black night

The one in the hoodie, with no facial tattoo,

 Lunged forward screaming into thin air:

“Put the fucking money in there!”

So what'd he get? In the blink of an eye?

Two barrels of a shotgun

Brain matter splattered on the sweet counter

A cross-eyed giant king snake

Tossing his remains across the Styx into hell

That's all there is to tell.