“What a stupid sonofabitch,” Eugene said.

          “Don’t worry about it,” Aram said.

          The overturned bucket on which Aram sat rocked, because the handle-ends bent but did not flatten on the floor.  He scooted the bucket nearer the wall and leaned his spine against a stud for better balance, then  closed his eyes as if to saw some Zs.

          Eugene did worry about it.  He said, “Bo had better get his ass in gear or he’s gonna be meat hangin’ on the rack hisself one o’ these days, go around actin’ like that.”

          “Shuddup, Eugene,” Aram said, like a man mumbling in his dreams.

          “Shuddup yourself, Armpit.”

          Jim Daniels walked around the two men and stopped a few feet from the window with the yellow coating bubbled up and cracked.  Behind it, a flit of wings became a fast shadow and then was gone.  Jim rotated his head to give the chubby one, Eugene, that look that would catch a shirt afire.  “You’re it, Eugene.  You’re gonna kill him.”

          “Not me!  No way.  No fuckin’ way.  I ain’t killin’ him.”  He pushed off from a short file cabinet on which he had been perched.  “I ain’t killed nobody in my whole damn life and I ain’t gonna start now.”

            Jim looked through a peeled portion of the coated window again and said, “Your choice.”