The Smoking Pun

Micro-fiction: 106 words.

Tonight’s target: a rat named Moe.

I’m scanning the lounge for him when I spot some cheesedick leering at my breasts. Then he scribbles on a napkin.

Dammit. He’s going to hit on me.

He finishes writing, then swaggers over. My Beretta is cocked under the table. I’m being paid to kill Moe, but I’ll do this guy pro bono if he insists.

He sets the note down, then swaggers out to the terrace. It reads: What do you call a sleeping tissue?... A napkin.

Goddammit. A pun. He insists.

I slip the Beretta back into my purse and pull out a knife. This one dies slow.