The Subtle Art of Brutality

I grab him by the scruff. One dude at the bar has his wallet open, drops a bill and gets up to leave.

“I’m the job today. Where?”

“Okay! Okay!” he trails off, looks away. I blow smoke on him. He coughs, hacks wet.

“Got his number? I’ll call him myself.” Say it so close my skin burns with the fearful heat radiating off of him.

“No. He’d kill me if—”

“Set it up then. Tell him I represent the folks who rightfully own that shit. Tell him now.”

At the mention he becomes as uneasy as a rodent in the claws of a bird of prey. They must have talked about what would happen if one day a guy saying what I am saying showed up. There’s no way some chick from Saint Ansgar would just roll into town with a load of dope needing to pawn it off who didn’t come with some baggage. She had to get it from somewhere. That somewhere is looking for it.

Now Blimpie is sitting across from that guy.

“Now look, mister...I had nothing to do with all that, okay? See, I just drop a baggie here and there and I don’t think—”

“You better run that mouth of yours into your cell phone before I fucking kill you right here, or I’ll take it from your pocket and call your brother while I’m driving to your mother’s house over on Holland to blast her. Got it?”

Wide-eyed stare. Any perp thinks you don’t know shit. They think they’re smarter than they really are. So when you start dropping real life facts about them, stuff like where their mom lives, it helps. They start to sum up the situation in a more realistic way. He looks like he just shit his pants as he says, “Okay, okay.”

He dials the number. Fidgets like a heroin addict a few hours past when they should have bumped but didn’t.

“No answer,” he says, like that is a final answer to everything and I have to let him go.

“Call Cherry then.”

He acts like he didn’t think of that before he spoke up. Maybe he didn’t. The brains of any operation this kid ain’t.

He dials a new number. Bingo.

“Cherry?” he says, nervous as hell calling this guy so early in the morning. A tell about Cherry. “It’s Blimpie. Listen...uhhh, you know that thing you and Danny talked about? The thing with the dope...yeah I know, it’s just that, well, their guy is here. He found me and you guys.”

Interesting how he phrases it me and you guys. Not us.

He leans away from me, whispers: “He’s got a gun.”

His eyes crawl to me. I can hear the voice on the other line but the words are nothing.

“Give me the phone.”

He shakes his head. No.

No one tells me no.

I take the phone in one swift snatch and my other hand lands in his solar plexus. His dumpy form melts and rolls off the stool in one weighted glob. Slaps the floor.

“You tell that fucking guy he can cut you up all he wants he ain’t getting his shit back no way no how! Blimpie? Blimpie! Your fat ass better be repeating me word for fucking word or I swear—”

“Mr. Cherry?” I say.

The other end of the line sobers up.

“Who am I speaking with?” The voice on the other end tries to be firm. I can hear the caged fury eeking out between his teeth. Mad that I show up, derail his perfect plan.

I clear my throat. “My name is Mr. Honey Bunny.”

“And what have you done with Blimpie, Honey Bunny.”