This is another piece I did for Wil Wheaton’s Soapbox. I’m not overjoyed with the plot or flow, but I used it more as an excercise to see if I could emulate the voice and manner of a friend’s alter-ego than anything else. In that regard, I’m happy with it.

His name… is Chester McFisticuffs.

Good morning, boys and girls. Welcome to the show. Things are not looking pretty at the moment; at least not from where I sit. I suppose “kneel” would be more accurate. Let’s go over the sit-rep, shall we? On knees? Check. Hands shoved deep into empty pockets? Check. Gun pointed at head? Check. Can you say “Screwed the pooch,” boys and girls? Yeah, I knew you could. You make me so proud.

“Ow!”

Mustn’t forget the two hoods. Check.

“Pay attention, Chesterino. I don’t like repeating myself.”

Jeesh. Can’t a guy have a leisure conversation with himself?

“Ow! Alright, alright. I’m listening”

“What are you doing here?”

“You must like hearing me repeat myself. I’m looking for somethin’.”

“Yeah, but you still haven’t told me what it is you are looking for, now have you?”

“Well…. that’s because I’m not going to.”

Some people are so thick.

I feel the barrel of the gun slap me on top of the head for the third time in as many minutes as a burly, bald-headed man steps into my line of sight, well out of reach. Everyone, meet Stewart. Stewart, this is everyone.

“What are you mumbling?”

“Nothing. So why the hell are you giving me the hassle? Did I walk in on a deal or somethin’?”

Stewart gives me a look. “Just answer the question.”

I hear a grunt of agreement from behind me. “Yeah, let’s get this finished. I’m gettin’ hungry.”

That would be Big Mike. If the man is all of five feet, then I’m a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader. He’s also pushing three hundred pounds, all of it muscle as far as I can tell. It’s obscene, I tell you. From what I hear, it’s a compensation thing.

“Look, Eddie has given me green-light to be a friendly neighbor, so why don’t you two just go run along and try extorting milk-money from the school kids?”

“Fuck that. They pack these days. Besides, Eddie’s out.”

“Eddie’s out? Since when?”

“Since Vegas.”

“Ah.”

Some people shouldn’t gamble. These are usually the same people that shouldn’t be trusted to deliver buy-money.

“So who’s in?”

Stewart glances at Big Mike. “Parker.”

Fuck. Eddie was an okay guy. Not that we were friends, not by a long-shot, but we understood each other. I understood that Eddie was a greedy, backstabbing weasel, and Eddie understood that I was a guy that wanted to be in the know and occasionally had the money to pay for the privilege. Parker was just plain mean. Very mean.

“The one with the hair? Never liked the fellow. I’d really rather not meet him again.”

“Then tell me why you are here.”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“Fine.”

I take a deep breath and open my mouth, but Stewart has drawn a pistol of his own and is now pointing it at my stomach.

“So help me, Chester, if you start singing I’m going to drill you myself!”

Damn. My lungs deflate. So much for my fifteen minutes. Not that I would have gotten a standing ovation from these guys: bad crowd.
Hey, if you don’t like puns, go sit in someone else’s head.

There’s the crash and rattle of a garbage can lid hitting the pavement.

“I think what I was looking for may have found me.”

A rather disheveled and smelly example of the feline persuasion saunters out from behind the cans and begins to transfer her new-found scent to my pant-leg. I slowly take my hands out of my pockets and pick her up, standing in the process.

“So, what do you say? Let bygones be bygones? No charge for the headache.”

Stewart thinks a moment. “If I see you here again…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m cat food. I’m outa here.”

I pause a moment and turn to Big Mike.

“Hey, Mike. I don’t mean to be intrusive or anything, but there’s something I’d like to ask you.”

He raises an eyebrow as I hold out my hand.

“You think I could have my gun back?”