The beefy gimp left minutes later to answer a phone call and, hopefully, a big fat punch that will take away his phone, wallet, Rolex and consciousness. I took a bracing swig of Miller Lite, hoisted my pet monkey and approached the vacated stool. First, she looked out the corner of her eyes; then gave a full stare. Dark, intense eyes, Gothic makeup, pierced nose and lower lip; another perforation just below the left brow, all framed in jet black sideburns that sported a neon blue Mohican in the center. It would be ungentlemanly to not introduce this one to my bed. How thoughtful of me!
I stood in front of her, beer in hand, holding her eyes with equally smoky sexiness, patiently waiting for the wickedly evasive spark that makes people want to smash genitals to…well, spark.
She looked at Loki.
“This one’s a pig. Where did you get him?”
“I’ll have you know this is a monkey.”
“I know. I was asking the monkey.” She smiled.
Then came along the long-awaited spark. With it the glassy shatter of something inside my chest. The acrid smoke from the shattered something wafted up my nostrils and tickled a sixth sense—I was crashing and burning before I even told her about my soon-to-be-late grandpa and grandma and the possibility of their majestic estate falling to me if their dog and the seven beneficiaries before me somehow accepted my heartfelt kisses to the sides of their heads (with a baseball bat, of course. Hard as a home run!).
Furious, I left the red staleness of the bar. Outside, I did a quick left-right sweep up of the dark alley. No sign of Horseface. Plagiarizing bastard! He stole my words and smooth-ass moves before I got the chance to lay them on the girl. I should fuck up his kidneys until he pissed blood. I burrowed into the dark, rounded a sharp bend.
Last I remembered was Loki yelping as a big, fat fist leaped out of the dark and took away my consciousness.
Loitering figures. Unfocused, slur-voiced figures in kilter. I blinked the haze away. Headbangers. They were looking at something. Loki’s feet landed before my eyes and the flying fist in the dark lunged for my face. I sat up fast. Nylons rustled, flies dispersed and the stench of rotten food registered its presence in the warm morning air. I jumped out retching, and Jackie Chaned dirt off my boxer shorts, waving off flies and reek with disgusted groans. I looked around, flummoxed, then surveyed the piles of trash bags where I was laid to temporary rest. Sandwiched between the bags was a large note. It read:
“Ur shirt’s tight, trousers a lil’ jumpy and jacket’s seen better days. Thanks, though. I think she’d like me better in your clothes. Mine are under your head.”
I glanced back at the spot where my head had been. Still bearing the impression of my head were Billy Horseface McEverydayguy’s neatly folded shirt, neck tie and trousers.
© 2015. Abdulqawiyu Muhammad
About the Author:
Abdulqawiyu Muhammad tried the revolutionary Dying Grand Parents’ Last Will and Testament approach on another girl. They’re currently dating and making marriage plans in lieu of the fortune to come. Problem is, his grandparents died before his birth and their property was shared alongside funeral rice and chicken.