[lumberjim]

The old man sent back his soup. He glared at me across the table in the filthy deli. The smoke from his cigarette tickled my nose, and I had a wedgie that I dared not pick in front of him. He pushed his hat back up on is head, and rubbed his scary-ass eyebrows with thumb and forefinger. Crunching noises punctuatued the silence as he rubbed. He said, " Just how many people do you think will actually contribute to this thread, genius?"
Hotly, I looked down at my plate. Fucker. It was a good idea. "I already told you, Barney," I said.
" You ignored me when I asked!" he spat. He seemed out of breath. But we were just sitting there. His skin was looking very white, and as I noticed this, a look came over his face. His eyes went out. They didn;t close, they just went out. I can't explain it other than to say that it was like looking at a light bulb that had just been on, and realizing that it was turned off. His mouth went slack, and he drooled upon the table. His head bobbed back up, and he said, " Why won't you tell me?...How many people??" and he began to slide slowly down the vinyl seat under the table.
Before he died, I grabbed him by the collar, putting the strength of all of my pent up agression and squashed dreams that I blamed him for into it and shouted right in his filthy old grey face. "I DID tell you, old man! THREE, I SAID!...THREE!!! That's why I only held up three fingers!"