known that
this was Highly Classified material, and that his job was on the
line. I reminded him that I was boffing his sister, and that
practically made me family. He told me that he never wanted to hear
the words boffing and his sister in the same sentence again and
that he was going to get drunk at our wedding and make a nuisance
of himself. I told him there would be no wedding because his sister
wasn’t marriage material. He told me to fuck off, and hung up.
The plays were complex, but not rocket
science. The majority faxed to me involved the fullback position,
which was my position. I studied them with interest, making my own
notes along the borders.
And that’s when the guy with the gun showed
up.
* * *
I heard the door open, and when I looked up
the Browning 9mm was pointed at my head. I hate when that
happens.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Shut the hell up, fuck nut.”
“Fuck nut. The one nut Home Depot doesn’t
carry.”
The man was probably in his fifties, gray
hair sleeked back with a lot of gel. He wore a gold hoop in his
left ear, pirate-like. Indeed, in his misspent youth he probably
always wanted to be a pirate or a buccaneer, only I didn’t really
know the difference between the two. Had it been fashionable, he
would have worn a patch over his eye. His face, all in all, was
hideous, heavily pock-marked, sunken and sallow. The gun never
wavered from my face.
“What’s the difference between a pirate and a
buccaneer?” I asked.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“I don’t know either. Nothing to be ashamed
of.”
His eyes, for all intents and purposes, were
dead. Lifeless. Lacking sympathy, compassion, or caring. The eyes
of a killer, rapist, suicidal bomber, genocidal dictator. His eyes
made me nervous, to say the least. Eyes like that were capable of
anything. Anything. They kill your family, your babies, your
children, your husbands and wives. I only knew one other man who
had eyes like that, and he was my father.
The Browning never wavered from my face.
“You’re working on a case,” the man said.
“I’m working on a few cases. It’s what I do.
See that filing cabinet behind me, it’s full of pending cases. The
shelf on the bottom is full of my closed cases.”
There was a heavy silence.
“You’re going to call me a fuck nut again
aren’t you?” I said. “It feels like a fuck nut moment, doesn’t
it?”
He pulled the trigger. My ear exploded with
pain. I tried not to flinch, although I might have, dammit. If he
had chosen that moment to call me a fuck nut I might have missed
it...due to the excessive ringing in my head.
The bullet had punctured a picture frame
behind me. I heard the glass tinkling down. I did not know yet
which picture it had been, although it would have been one of the
featured articles about yours truly.
That’s when I felt something drip onto my
shoulder. I touched my ear. Blood. The bullet grazed my lobe.
“You shot me,” I said.
“We want you off the Derrick Booker case,” he
said. “Or the next shot won’t miss.”
“But you didn’t miss. You shot my earlobe.
Get it straight.”
“I heard you would be a smart ass.”
“Sometimes I am a smart ass. Now I’m just
pissed. You shot me.”
“We meet again and I kill you.”
“You shot me,” I said. “We meet again and I
owe you one.”
He grinned and proceeded to shoot out five or
six framed pictures behind me. I didn’t move. The cacophony of
tinkling glass and resounding gunshots filled my head and
office.
He pointed the gun at my forehead and said,
“Bang, fuck nut.”
He backed out of my office and shut the
door.
And I went back to my playbook. My ears were
ringing and my earlobe stung.
The fuck nut.
17.
On the way home from the office I stopped by
the local liquor store and bought a bottle of Scotch and some
Oreos. The Scotch was for getting drunk, and the Oreos were for
gaining weight. At two-hundred and ten pounds I was still too small
for
this was Highly Classified material, and that his job was on the
line. I reminded him that I was boffing his sister, and that
practically made me family. He told me that he never wanted to hear
the words boffing and his sister in the same sentence again and
that he was going to get drunk at our wedding and make a nuisance
of himself. I told him there would be no wedding because his sister
wasn’t marriage material. He told me to fuck off, and hung up.
The plays were complex, but not rocket
science. The majority faxed to me involved the fullback position,
which was my position. I studied them with interest, making my own
notes along the borders.
And that’s when the guy with the gun showed
up.
* * *
I heard the door open, and when I looked up
the Browning 9mm was pointed at my head. I hate when that
happens.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Shut the hell up, fuck nut.”
“Fuck nut. The one nut Home Depot doesn’t
carry.”
The man was probably in his fifties, gray
hair sleeked back with a lot of gel. He wore a gold hoop in his
left ear, pirate-like. Indeed, in his misspent youth he probably
always wanted to be a pirate or a buccaneer, only I didn’t really
know the difference between the two. Had it been fashionable, he
would have worn a patch over his eye. His face, all in all, was
hideous, heavily pock-marked, sunken and sallow. The gun never
wavered from my face.
“What’s the difference between a pirate and a
buccaneer?” I asked.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“I don’t know either. Nothing to be ashamed
of.”
His eyes, for all intents and purposes, were
dead. Lifeless. Lacking sympathy, compassion, or caring. The eyes
of a killer, rapist, suicidal bomber, genocidal dictator. His eyes
made me nervous, to say the least. Eyes like that were capable of
anything. Anything. They kill your family, your babies, your
children, your husbands and wives. I only knew one other man who
had eyes like that, and he was my father.
The Browning never wavered from my face.
“You’re working on a case,” the man said.
“I’m working on a few cases. It’s what I do.
See that filing cabinet behind me, it’s full of pending cases. The
shelf on the bottom is full of my closed cases.”
There was a heavy silence.
“You’re going to call me a fuck nut again
aren’t you?” I said. “It feels like a fuck nut moment, doesn’t
it?”
He pulled the trigger. My ear exploded with
pain. I tried not to flinch, although I might have, dammit. If he
had chosen that moment to call me a fuck nut I might have missed
it...due to the excessive ringing in my head.
The bullet had punctured a picture frame
behind me. I heard the glass tinkling down. I did not know yet
which picture it had been, although it would have been one of the
featured articles about yours truly.
That’s when I felt something drip onto my
shoulder. I touched my ear. Blood. The bullet grazed my lobe.
“You shot me,” I said.
“We want you off the Derrick Booker case,” he
said. “Or the next shot won’t miss.”
“But you didn’t miss. You shot my earlobe.
Get it straight.”
“I heard you would be a smart ass.”
“Sometimes I am a smart ass. Now I’m just
pissed. You shot me.”
“We meet again and I kill you.”
“You shot me,” I said. “We meet again and I
owe you one.”
He grinned and proceeded to shoot out five or
six framed pictures behind me. I didn’t move. The cacophony of
tinkling glass and resounding gunshots filled my head and
office.
He pointed the gun at my forehead and said,
“Bang, fuck nut.”
He backed out of my office and shut the
door.
And I went back to my playbook. My ears were
ringing and my earlobe stung.
The fuck nut.
17.
On the way home from the office I stopped by
the local liquor store and bought a bottle of Scotch and some
Oreos. The Scotch was for getting drunk, and the Oreos were for
gaining weight. At two-hundred and ten pounds I was still too small
for
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