Sufficiently twisted were the fingers on Hobbie the creamer merchant's hands. Just twisted enough to make his customers believe the wild tales he would tell about his need to sell coffee creamer in order to pay for special medical treatments available only in Thailand or Indonesia or maybe even in a place that his customers had never heard of. Maybe it was in a place that Hobbie had never heard of. Maybe it was no place at all.
Hobbie lifted his little pearl-handled knife and gestured at the Paint Kid. “You gonna' git goin'? Or are you just gonna' sit there?” He gestured at the slice of pie on the table in front of the Paint Kid, “you gonna' gimme' that? Or are you just gonna' let it sit over there?”
The Paint Kid pushed the slice of pie toward Hobbie, and watched as Hobbie greedily pulled it toward himself, pulled off the top crust and placed it in the immense gaping wound on his face that a medical professional would call a “mouth.” A wet, shiny tongue flopped out of that great wound and flapped in the air until Hobbie placed the bottom crust upon it. The tongue retracted with the pastry upon it – leaving both Hobbie and his tongue greatly satisfied.
“I sit here. You sit there. You give me pie. I eat the damn pie. That's just how it works, crap-o,” said Hobbie to the Paint Kid, who flinched at being called “crap-o.” Hobbie smiled, revealing great gaps in his teeth that were now plugged with doughy bits of half-chewed crust. Damn, that was some fine pie. “If I don't like the pie, I shove it down your throat. You'll see why we call that hole in your face the 'pie-hole'. It's only one of my two favorite holes. I keeps both of mine clean. You should too.”
“I got a clean hole,” said the Paint Kid.
“You shut the hell up, crap-o,” shouted Hobbie, “you shut that hole and keep it closed until I decide to shove something down it. That hole belongs to me now, you hear me?”
The Paint Kid just sat there, looking at the floor and smelling pie in the air. He looked up and saw himself reflected in the eyes of the creamer merchant sitting across from him, and he saw what his pie hole looked like. Hobbie continued to chew the last remnants of pie ever so absentmindedly and occasionally worked a little bit of crust to the tip of his enormous tongue, and then would reach up with a dirty thumb and forefinger and pick it off. He would flick the bit of crust against a nearby wall, where it would adhere. The Paint Kid looked away in disgust with each flick.
“Crap-o, I gotta' tell you. I want more pie. You got more pie?” asked Hobbie. His voice sounded almost forlorn for a moment. “You got any really moist pie?”
The Paint Kid saw the bright light of the moment and sat erect. “I got no more pie, Hobbie. No more pie. Never. No pie.”
A tear rolled out of Hobbie's yellow-crusted eye. “No pie?”
“No shit, Hobbie.”
Hobbie the creamer merchant began to turn to a silvery mist and move with the wind, and the last part to turn into a silvery mist was his enormous tongue. It floated in mid-air for a moment and then winked out of existence. The Paint Kid pulled a tart from his knapsack and placed it on the table. He whistled a merry tune and then placed a moist forkful in his pie-hole.