consider. What did these people know and what could they show? He’d rescheduled his morning with a hasty excuse about illness and a fabricated doctor’s appointment and scampered out before he’d have to deepen the fib.
“The cocksucker that handled my divorce, for instance, charged me $800 every time he walked across the room to pick up a paperclip. In fact, the only guy who ever got his money’s worth out of any attorney was O.J. Simpson.”
Mr. Clean certainly had some heartfelt convictions.
And so, against his better judgment, Stouder sat still and periodically nodded his complete agreement with Mr. Clean and wondered how much longer he should give it before he scampered the hell out of The Brass Rail.
“Truth be told, I’d done some things—things that in the light of day I ain’t proud of—that killed the marriage. I’m big enough to own that. Now my ex ain’t necessarily over it, but we get along. Hell, I stopped by her apartment last month for some drinks and got the balls licked. But that’s not my point. My point is the bills this fucker kept serving at me were unconscionable. Talk about kicking a fellow when he’s down.”
Stouder nodded, deeply wishing to the core of his existence that he were anyplace but here.
“And that really
irked
me,” the drunk continued. “That’s a word you don’t hear much anymore, but it irked the living shit out of me. Every time I cut him a new check, it was like twisting corkscrews into my eyeballs. But I kept a stiff upper lip, patted him on the back when the papers finally came through. I even bought him a drink—he even ordered some of that red piss you’re drinking—when I cut him his final check at a tavern not unlike this one. All amiable and ain’t you just done me the biggest fucking favor in the world and all that kind of shit because you’ve got to do things right and let a little time go by. You know what I mean?”
Stouder nodded by rote.
“I even passed along some business referrals. You know, to dicks I could care less about. I even sent the shyster a Happy Holidays card that first Christmas after the divorce. All happy times are here again and bullshit. But, you see, I didn’t forget his gouging. I just couldn’t move on, I guess. So after a proper amount of time had passed, I came to visit him late one night, and woke his ass out of bed with an invoice of my own, know what I mean?”
Stouder started to nod, but paused and stared at Mr. Clean.
“A little something that needed to be paid in full, an account that needed settling. You should’ve seen that fucker’s pale face. Sonofabitch—that’s right!” Mr. Clean got excited, dug something out of his pocket and slapped it on the top of the bar, right next to Stouder’s glass of Merlot. “That’s how I came about this little coin purse.”
Stouder looked at the poor excuse for a coin purse sitting on the counter in front of him. Oddly shaped, the slit down the middle warped open, and looking more like one of those rawhide pig ears his mother bought for Tanzy, the poodle, than any coin purse Stouder had ever seen before.
“That’s one hundred percent yam sac, that is,” Mr. Clean said. “One hundred percent.”
Stouder felt the bile rise in the back of his throat and struggled to keep it down.
“You’re going to want to head into the back parlor, beyond the pool tables.” Mr. Clean now sounded sober. “They’re ready for you.”
Stouder stood still in the parlor’s entryway, trying to recoup from an overly invasive frisk by Mr. Clean. Not a big room, certainly nothing to host any type of event Stouder could think of outside a biker gangbang. A single circular table sat in the middle of the room. It was covered with a lime-green tablecloth that may have been new during the Kennedy Administration. A speakerphone sat atop the table. Next to it an inch-thick manila folder labeled with Stouder’s name. One wooden chair sat in front of the table. It appeared fairly
“The cocksucker that handled my divorce, for instance, charged me $800 every time he walked across the room to pick up a paperclip. In fact, the only guy who ever got his money’s worth out of any attorney was O.J. Simpson.”
Mr. Clean certainly had some heartfelt convictions.
And so, against his better judgment, Stouder sat still and periodically nodded his complete agreement with Mr. Clean and wondered how much longer he should give it before he scampered the hell out of The Brass Rail.
“Truth be told, I’d done some things—things that in the light of day I ain’t proud of—that killed the marriage. I’m big enough to own that. Now my ex ain’t necessarily over it, but we get along. Hell, I stopped by her apartment last month for some drinks and got the balls licked. But that’s not my point. My point is the bills this fucker kept serving at me were unconscionable. Talk about kicking a fellow when he’s down.”
Stouder nodded, deeply wishing to the core of his existence that he were anyplace but here.
“And that really
irked
me,” the drunk continued. “That’s a word you don’t hear much anymore, but it irked the living shit out of me. Every time I cut him a new check, it was like twisting corkscrews into my eyeballs. But I kept a stiff upper lip, patted him on the back when the papers finally came through. I even bought him a drink—he even ordered some of that red piss you’re drinking—when I cut him his final check at a tavern not unlike this one. All amiable and ain’t you just done me the biggest fucking favor in the world and all that kind of shit because you’ve got to do things right and let a little time go by. You know what I mean?”
Stouder nodded by rote.
“I even passed along some business referrals. You know, to dicks I could care less about. I even sent the shyster a Happy Holidays card that first Christmas after the divorce. All happy times are here again and bullshit. But, you see, I didn’t forget his gouging. I just couldn’t move on, I guess. So after a proper amount of time had passed, I came to visit him late one night, and woke his ass out of bed with an invoice of my own, know what I mean?”
Stouder started to nod, but paused and stared at Mr. Clean.
“A little something that needed to be paid in full, an account that needed settling. You should’ve seen that fucker’s pale face. Sonofabitch—that’s right!” Mr. Clean got excited, dug something out of his pocket and slapped it on the top of the bar, right next to Stouder’s glass of Merlot. “That’s how I came about this little coin purse.”
Stouder looked at the poor excuse for a coin purse sitting on the counter in front of him. Oddly shaped, the slit down the middle warped open, and looking more like one of those rawhide pig ears his mother bought for Tanzy, the poodle, than any coin purse Stouder had ever seen before.
“That’s one hundred percent yam sac, that is,” Mr. Clean said. “One hundred percent.”
Stouder felt the bile rise in the back of his throat and struggled to keep it down.
“You’re going to want to head into the back parlor, beyond the pool tables.” Mr. Clean now sounded sober. “They’re ready for you.”
Stouder stood still in the parlor’s entryway, trying to recoup from an overly invasive frisk by Mr. Clean. Not a big room, certainly nothing to host any type of event Stouder could think of outside a biker gangbang. A single circular table sat in the middle of the room. It was covered with a lime-green tablecloth that may have been new during the Kennedy Administration. A speakerphone sat atop the table. Next to it an inch-thick manila folder labeled with Stouder’s name. One wooden chair sat in front of the table. It appeared fairly
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