Slice

WINDER

“Oh, man, shit, Bo, I done drew DOWN on ‘im.” They had ditched the Crown Vic. “God DAMN that's a good fuckin’ feelin—SHIIIIT.” John Monroe was toked and stoked. He started counting again, one hunnert, two hunnert, three hunnert, damn ... He lost track ag'in. “Oh, man. I mean I was cocked ‘n rocked, weren't I?"

“Uh huh."

“Bo, that sucker come out from behin’ that post ‘n shit ‘n just pop outta there like a rabbit tree'd outta a damn cornfield, POW—pops up and goes, Awright, Louie, drop the gat, er, some ole-timey shit an’ I just go cooler'n a damn snake I go PPPKKKKKSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! ‘n blast that fucker onta his shitty ass.” He laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. A man dying. “Up jumps the devil and PPPPKKKSSSSSSSHHHHHEEEW WW! One rentacop"—he made the finger scoreboard gesture—"ten points! Hot dawgies."

He started to count again, this time out loud, “Twenty, forty, forty-five, ninety-five, and, uh, ninety-five and twenty well call ‘er a hunnert and twenty, hunnert and forty, hunnert forty-five, two hunnert and forty-five, two hunnert and sixty-five—"

“John.” Patient. Calm. His sweet, syrupy put-on voice.

“Ya sure kin shoot, John. I mean f'r some dum-fuck bum-fuck ya’ kin drill, boy."

“Ain't that the fuckin’ truth, Bo. Two hunnert and eighty-five. Three hunnert and eighty-five, uh, four hunnert and forty-five—"

“Real fine on the draw there. Ya done real good with that there pipe."

“Yeah.” He didn't like Wendell's tone. He kept counting in silence, six hunnert ... seven ... eight. Another thousand stack. That was ... what? He'd already lost count. Fifteen? Seventeen. Most he'd ever seen.

“Hey, Bo. Weuns got us about eighteen, nineteen thousand dollars here. Motherfucker! ‘Atsa most gaw-damned money ah'v ever seen in mah fuckin’ LIFE. Maybe nineteen, twenty thousand dollars.” It was getting more each time he said it.

“Uh huh. Thing is, f'r somebody with a fast pipe like youuns got that there was some serious BAD fuckin’ reflexes at the door. Ya know that, doncha, boy? Ya know ya fucked up back air—now say it, eh?"

“Huh?” He didn't like the tone at all.

“Yeah. Ya fucked up real purty, John."

“I don't know whatcha mean, Bo. I didn't do nothin’ wro—"

“'N another thang take ‘n spit out that there fuckin’ foam rubber in y'r cheeks, ah cain't understan'a fuckin’ word—okay?"

“Yeah.” He spat out the window. One of the sides he had to dislodge with a finger. “'N we can shave these mustaches off too like ya said. They gonna be lookin’ f'r two theefs with them caps ‘n pussy ticklers and big ole chipmunk cheeks."

“Ya fucked us out of about twenty thousand back air."

“Huh?"

“Ass right."

“No way, man.” He didn't have to take that shit. He'd gone and saved their shitty butts back there.

“Twenty thousand. My half is ten. So you owe me ten outta youuns share.” He was deadly serious.

“Shit. You was JOKIN’ with me.” He got it now. He thought Wendell had been serious. “You got some sense of humor, man. Shit chew had me a-goin'. Hell's bells."

“Uh huh."