Jimmy stood in the doorway in his traditional dirty blue jeans and loud t-shirt. The t-shirt really caught me off guard for a second there. It had a picture of a fat guy wearing an undersized t-shirt with the line, “Go F_ck Yourself”. Below that, it read “Would you like to buy a vowel?” Yea, what was that all about?
“Hey Clyde, what the hell are you doing here? How is the old man? Heck, come inside”
“Hey Jimmy, I am here to kill you and that troll you call a wife, and by the way the old man is dead! I made sure of that.”
There was an abrupt silence.
“You are such a kidder, kids these days. Your old man and I go way back for me to take you seriously; else I would have my gun to your head by now. You are old enough to drink right? Come have a drink with me and tell me why you are here.”
Poor Jimmy, I guess he never saw it coming. See, that’s what happens with old age; you tend to slack. In Jimmy’s case unbeknown to him, it’s going to cost him his life. He poured himself a shot of whiskey from the bar in their living room and offered me one from a similar glass.
“I am not twenty one Jimmy. Besides, I don’t care much for alcohol thank you. Say Jimmy, do you remember a job you guys did some twenty years ago?”
“The one that involved some poor kid in a pool of acid, I realize it’s been a while but surely you must remember, right?” I asked.
I could sense Jimmy was getting nervous at this point. I saw a trickle of sweat begin to form from across the bow of his forehead as he sipped his whiskey. If I didn’t know better, I would say Jimmy was as nervous as a whore in church.
“Look kid, where are you getting all this information from? Because this is bull, I am calling your dad, and he better have something good to say, because I swear I will personally take you out if he doesn’t. What business of yours is this?”
Jimmy went reaching for the cell phone in his pants pocket, but I beat him to it with a kick to his balls. It sent him reeling backwards in pain while I snatched the phone. It took him awhile, but he recovered in time to connect with my approaching fist to the temple. That surprised him too because he recoiled, but only briefly. This time he went for his gun, a 9mm which he kept in a custom holster in the middle of his back underneath his t-shirt. I had anticipated that too, and was up on him like a hyena on prey in one swift move. Frankly the poor bastard never stood a chance; he was out maneuvered and out played.
I managed to grab a heavy decanter of rum and clubber him on the side of the head. He was passed out before he hit the floor. I removed his gun and emptied the clip, tossing the gun in the hallway and the clip in the kitchen trash can. I pulled the cord from the floor lamp out of the wall in the living room and ripped it from the lamp. I turned him around and bound his hands behind him, then walking over to the small kitchen I went through the drawers looking for duct tape.
Most homes have duct tape in the kitchen, especially homes in trailer parks. I taped his lips shut, and propped him in his favorite couch. It was the only couch in the living room, so it had to be his favorite. I then bound his legs together and taped him to the couch in a swirly kind of way, like they do at the post office. Yes, this package won’t be going any where for a long time.
To be continued...