creative writing project
Sticking a gun in a man's face is a terrible thing to do to him. For one thing, it is completely immasculating. Maybe there really are some hard bastards out there who can keep their cool whilst looking down the barrel, but I ain't met one yet. Any reasonable guy will simply lose his shit and there ain't no shame in that. All a man can hope for is to not panic and not piss himself. Now truth be told, I hate putting a man in that situation. It ain't neighborly. It ain't something you get over real quick, neither. When one man pokes a loaded 357 magnum into another man's eyeball it seriously alters the dynamics of the relationship and I don't like that. Well, most of the time.
But right here we got a definite exception to the rule. I am mad as hell and I don't mind letting this little bastard on the floor in front of me know about it. Thing is, I'm half as mad at myself as I am at him. This ain't the way I planned my afternoon. So I'll set it all up for you, so you understand how I ain't really the bad guy here. Well, yeah, I am, but just hear me out.
Me and Lexi roll up to this greasy spoon bar. I got business with the owner, Charley. Lexi keeps his ugly face shut and looks menacing, which ain't hard for the guy. He is one big, ugly, KGB-looking scary mother fucker, and who knows? Maybe if his parent's hadn't moved to Covington, Kentucky when hse was three that mighta been his destiny. I'm serious, they'd use Lexi's picture on their recruiting posters if they could. Put him in an overcoat and one of them big bear hats the commies wear and he'd be perfect. But he's as good a redneck as any and he don't look so tough with his Deere cap on and half a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans littered around him.
Anyway, he strikes the fear just by giving Charley the hairy eyeball and then I invite him back to the office to talk business. Kind of a good thug, bad thug thing. We got a good system. So we go back to the little room behind the pisser and chat. Now I'll admit to a flair for the dramatic and I've actually got a speech to give to people who default on one of my loans. I use lots of big words 'cuz they sound funny coming out of a Southern boy's mouth, but I'm mostly trying to make the guy understand that I'd really like to have my money paid back. It's a good speech, I'll write it down some time I swear. Thing it, Charly don't let me finish.
I'm just getting to the good part where I use the word 'fiduciary'...hey fuck you, I graduated third in my damn class. I'm fucking educated! So I'm in the middle of it and Charley, crazy fucking Charly, pulls a God damn machete from under the table and takes a swing at me! This damnthing is a Bowie knife the size of Hardin County and the stupid bastard is waving it at me like it's gonna scare me out of his life or something.
At this point I am downright embarrassed. I shoulda seen the crazy in his eyes. Hell, predicting the stupidity of others is damn near my job description. But I was in the zone with my pretty speech, feeling all superior and shit, and I let my guard down enough that I let this moron draw on me. Thank God it wasn't a gun or it might be Lexi telling this story. So; embarrassed, angry, a churning belly full of adrenaline and a slab of metal in my arm pit in the form of a 357 Magnum...OK, so I got a little carried away.
Sixty seconds later and Charley is under his desk, which I kinda flipped over on him; he's bleeding from a somewhat more energetic pistol whipping than necessry, and he's got the business end of my Colt pressed into is left eye socket. So you see how I'm not the bad guy here, right?
"God DAMN it Chuck! I came in here to talk to you and you start channelling Crocodile Dundee! Jesus Christ, what were you thinking?" He tries to make some word noises out his mouth but he's just spitting blood on my cuff. Damn it, now I'll have to go home and change. "Lookit, Chuckie. Forty eight hours. Three thousand...no, you know what, three thousand and fifty dollars because you just bought me a new shirt! I charge a lower rate because I am a nice fucking guy, Chuckie, not because I take shit from deadbeat gamblers. You hear me boy?" I said more but I got my point across.
Lexi gives me a raised eyeborw when I come back.
"That ani't your blood, is it?" I'm still pissed at myself, but damned if I'll take it out on Lexi. He's my best frind and all. Plus he can crush me like a can of PBR so I try to keep on his good side. I toss him the keys to the Dodge.
"Don't ask. You drive. I gotta get out of this damn shirt."