TWO HUNDRED - JIMMY CALLAWAY
“You’ve got two hundred words to explain yourself.” I cocked the hammer.
He whimpered and said, “No one was s’posed to get hurt, man. Bitch came to us,” he glanced at his dead buddy, “Said the old folks ran the store by themselves. Said they’d give it right up, they had no helpers or nothin’, they had a son, but he’s in the Marines, he’s long gone. And it was him, man,” another glance at his buddy, “he shot the old lady, she wouldn’t give it up. Bitch said she would, but she didn’t.” He looked up, counting in his head. “How many words was that?”
I pressed the barrel to his forehead. “Not enough.”
“Man, man, man, I ain’t never hurt nobody in my life, honest, ’specially not some old lady. It was him, man. And that bitch.”
“The bitch’s name.”
“‘Uh’ counts as a word.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Angela!” he cried finally, “Her name was Angela!” He paused, counting. “Was that two hundred?”
“Close enough.” I shot him.
I got a pass back home to take care of my mother’s funeral. But now I need to arrange my sister’s funeral as well.
My sister, Angela.
BIO: As usual, Jimmy Callaway lives and works in San Diego, Calif. As usual, more hilarity is available at Attention Children. Go look at his story, YOUR OWN SATURDAY NIGHT, in the latest issue of THUGLIT.
Friday's Forgotten Books, May 25, 2018
13 hours ago