Posts tagged ‘Story’

June 10, 2012

The Key

The key, long and narrow, was a bad match for the wide brass joints of the Smithon lock. The man with the irish cap–which he wore because he was balding, and thought well of the irish–forced it into the lock. He didn’t have much success. The key jiggled at first past the mushroom joint clips at the front end. It stabbed past the cylinder end and damaged the mechanism. Bent, broken, and useless, the man in the irish cap tossed the metal junk into the bushes by the path.

Hopefully, magdalena would see him and offer a drink. He often brushed such sympathies aside, but Magdalena almost tied him down and poured the scotch down his throat before he had grumbled something about the stern will of women. Tonight, however, the wind whispered to the leaves, which in turn shook their heads and waggled their fingers at the man in the irish cap.

A car, or rather, the lights of an old ford automotive, sped across the horizon and turned onto the dirt road called Soledad street. The man with the Irish cap followed the lights until the pulled directly up to the house. Out stepped a tall, dark-skinned man. He wore a thin cotton shirt and chomped a cigar in his mouth. He was wearing dark tinted sunglasses–it was the darkest of night–and his arms were the size of two columns at the parthenon.

“Sorry son of a bitch. Try to rob me–!” The man in the automotive reached inside of the car. The man in the irish cap held up his hands and stood up.

“Wait, sir, please, I can explain–” He was cut short by the mechanical cocking of a long barreled rifle and steady aim with which the owner of the house used to look down the sight. In that moment, the man in the irish cap was hit with a sudden burst of inspiration. “Good goddamn lord what the fuck is wrong with you! Put that damn thing away and calm down, motherfucker!” It may have been the adrenaline that evoked this sudden change in temperament, but it was at the wrong time, and the man in the irish cap had to hold his hand over his chest to stop the bleeding, but the blood came out anyway.

The man in the automotive was talking on the phone with, presumably, the cops. The coversation went something like this:

“Hey, assholes, get your fat asses down here. I’m reporting a robbery. What? Naw, I shot his ass, and–wait, what the fuck you mean, liable? Fuckers, is this the kind bullshit I gotta put up with–hello? Fuckers!”

The man in the Irish cap woke up in the hospital, with Magdalena squeezing his hand and sitting by his side. Her face was a mass of creased up worry lines as she stared intently into his face. “God, she’s ugly”, he thought.

“We’re getting you wasted, John. Seriously, boy, you survived a gunshot to the chest? Well that’s too bad, because you’re gonna need a new liver after we celebrate tonight.” Magdalena hugged her man, and John, the Irish capped wonder, grunted in pain.

“Ack! John, you ok?”

“Let’s hold off on the Jack Daniels just yet, hon. Maybe a ginger ale first, eh?”

“John. What the hell were you doing out there?” The room got silent, and a muffled voice blared over the loudspeaker.

“I was hoping you would not ask that, hon.”

“The hell I won’t. Spill the beans.”

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