Death By Rum-Raisin

It's dark as oreo crumbs, the streets are wet, I've gone out to carry back the package.

My wet trenchcoat gleams in the street light like butterscotch. A very black Smith-and-Wesson revolver digs under my arm like a freezer scoop.

The smudge where my lap would be if I was sitting down is a ripple of triple-choco-fudge.

The fedora has a broad brim, somewhere the city sound of a broad with strawberry lips.