California Fire And Life

118

Teddy Kuhl's doing the smart thing.

He's running.

Since motherfucking Deputy Dawg's parting shot that Teddy sang like a bird, Teddy knows it's only a matter of time before one of his tightest buddies rats him out to the Russians.

Teddy knows that he is just cash on the hoof.

So, hurting as he is, he nuts it up, packs a few things, gets on his bike and heads east until this shit cools off. He's thinking maybe Arizona.

He is doing a very smart thing.

Then he does a very stupid thing.

He stops for a beer.

Stupider than that, he stops for a beer at a bikers bar called Cook's Corner, out by Modjeska Canyon. Teddy's thinking he needs a beer, maybe, and this is the last good beer spot for many dry and lonely miles.

The beer tastes so good to him he goes for another.

Gets laughing with some buddies and ends up having five.

Doesn't even notice one of his boys on the phone.

Beer number seven, he decides it's time to hit the road and get out of Dodge, but he needs to take a piss first. Beer bladder pressing down on him like a fifty-pound weight.

So he slides off the stool, pushes the metal door into the men's room, and steps up to the stainless-steel trough.

All by his lonesome in there.

George Thorogood song blaring from inside the bar – Teddy's kind of rocking to it as he unzips his fly and lets loose.

"Aaaaaahhhhh."

Hitter steps out from a stall, puts the pistol to the back of Teddy's head and pulls the trigger.

Teddy dies with what's left of his face in the urinal.

Right next to that little white sponge thing.