An old man walked into Safeway the other day
He wore peculiar clothes, old style, and carried a cane
His white goatee and steel blue eyes caused even the teenagers to notice
He could have been ninety, but his countenance was timeless
This man was sharp, fiercely independent, a force to be reckoned with

Sometimes elderly people smell, dress in dumpy ways, and look tired
Not Mr. Glass
His cane struck the linoleum floor like it wasn’t even there

He made his way to the cashier
In his possession was a fine cigar, pipe tobacco, and crackers
Mr. Glass paid with exact change, then walked out

Some teenagers followed him
Mr. Glass exposed his bankroll when he paid
The man believed in using cash and nothing else 

It was dark in the parking lot, probably two AM
“Hey old man, you got a light?”
Mr. Glass stopped in his tracks

He reached into his suite pocket, procuring a silver lighter
He flicked the flint, igniting a flame
If the teenagers had watched closely, they would have seen a flicker of mischief in his features
The biggest leader walked toward him with his cigarette outstretched
“Thanks Mister, Now I will take your wallet.”

Glass did not look surprised or shaken
They closed in on him like wolves

Glass did not reach for his wallet
And his long overcoat flapped in the breeze
His left arm slowly reached for his silver cane held in his right hand
The ornamental wolf’s head gleamed in the moonlight
The old man reached under the wolf’s chin and gently pulled

There was a gentle clicking sound
It wasn’t loud, but it caused Glass’ adversaries to stand still
“What’s up with your cane, man?”
“It’s been a long time since the wolf has tasted blood,” Glass whispered.
The hoodlum pulled out a switchblade. He’d already decided to cut Glass’ throat.
The wolf’s neck was getting longer

“He has a sword,” one of the teenagers yelled.
The leader slashed at Mr. Glass’ chest
Reacting, Glass parried, bring his antique weapon down on the hoodlum’s hand
Blood spurted across the pavement and the pound of flesh lay motionless on the street
“My hand! The Bastard sliced off my fucking hand! Get him!”
But the band of brotherhood was running in every direction

Mr. Glass floated toward his adversaries like a phantom of the night.
A silver band of lightning flashed in the reflection of the moon
Intermittently painted in crimson and echoing the screams of youth
They were all dead

Glass surveyed the bodies and lit his cigar
He wiped his bloodied blade on the nearest victim
Sliding it gently into its wooden resting place

Mr. Glass walked into the night

One thought on “Mr. Glass

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