The First Twenty-two

Another 100 word drabble. You ever run into that guy at the pub that just can't stop talking politics?

“So I says to the guy, I says, look, I only stabbed him the first 22 times. I swear to gods. No bullshit. He’s got his own entrails clutched in his fists. He’s trying to shove ‘em back in. His toga gets tangled in his intestines. He’s looking at his buddy. This jabroni stumbles forward. His buddy catches him. They go to the ground. They’re staring into each other’s eyes, lips quivering like freakin’ lovers, right?

His buddy, outta nowhere, stabs him right in the heart. Ice-freakin’-cold.

Before he dies, he says ‘et tu, Brute?’

For the Republic my ass.”