Sal handed Gina a small gift wrapped in the comics section of the morning paper.

Here, I got you a present, he said.

Take off that shirt and hat, she said.

It’s fool-proof marketing to a niche audience, he said. 

Sal wore a black baseball cap with the words “GEORGE FLOYD” written in red rhinestones across the front and a black T-shirt with the words NO JUSTICE NO PEACE” emblazoned across the back.

Open it, he said, nodding at the package.

Unwrapping the box Gina stared at the bracelet on which sparkling fake diamonds spelled out “I CAN’T BREATHE”

When in Rome, baby, Sal said.

I can’t believe you, Gina said.

We’ll make a killing selling this shit to the splibs, he said.

What do you mean we?

Just set up a display case by the cash register. We’re getting more black customers since the riots are getting closer to the shop. You know how those people are with their bling.

I can’t take this anymore, Sal.

Whaaaa?

You’re a cold-blooded racist and proud of it, the Blessed Mother is a phony, now the exploitation of seriously oppressed people all but makes you want to bring back slavery.

Hey, if it was good enough for George Washington and George Jefferson.

That’s not funny, asshole.

How many times do you want me to tell you I’m full-blooded Italian so I relate to people of color because I am people of color, Sal said.

You really don’t get it, do you?

I’m a big fan of Malcolm X, Gina. I read his autobiography when I was in the joint. I’ll do what I need to do to get my piece of the action by any means necessary. Let the white trash sit in their trailers and watch the spooks take their jobs. What about reverse discrimination? Affirmative action? Multiculturalism? Political correctness is killing us not the cops. And I hate cops.

Waving his arms around, Sal caught a glimpse of his oversized wristwatch and moved fast to the door.

Showtime, he said.

Unlocking and throwing open the door, he looked lovingly at the line of people awaiting the appearance of the vision, of Her, the image of the Blessed Mother than drew more and more believers to the shop despite the fires and violence of the increasingly violent nightly protests. And there she was in all her glory, Mary, the mother of God, appearing like clockwork on the rear wall of the pizzeria.

All of a sudden, coming right at him, Sal thought a bat flew into the shop.

Look out! Look out!

Gina ducked.

Dive-bombing and circling with the single focus of a kamikaze pilot at Pearl Harbor, Dillon squawked.

Turn out the light! Turn out the light!

Landing on the counter with the ease of a fighter plane touchdown on an aircraft carrier, the parrot picked up the diamond bracelet in his beak and lifted off. Heading back through the door Dillon screeched.

Turn off the light! Turn off the goddamn light!

At the mere mention of word “god” dozens of good practicing Catholic standing in line blessed themselves as Dillon circled the streetlight and headed off high into the sky. Not one of the faithful had any idea the sacred image only appeared when the new streetlight went on and would disappear forever if the light went off for good.

That’s it, Sal said.

Gina glared.

Serves you right, she said.

I swear I’m going to fricassee that bird.

With that, a slender man wearing wrap-around shades and a black bandana across his nose stood in the doorway. Pointing a small caliber pistol at Sal, he fired. The bullet hit Sal in the nose, breaking the plastic surgery altered bone and embedded itself in the bridge. The second shot caught Sal straight through the heart, where, contrary to popular opinion and proven by the medical examiner’s autopsy the next morning, a heart actually existed.

Ciao, the hitman said.

That quick Dillon was back, flying low through the door, again landing on the counter, this time snagging a pizza slice and flying back out into the street. The bird shrieked one last time on the way out the door.

Turn out the light, the bird said.

Turn out the light.