The Mugging, a short story

mug

His breath smelled of fried rice and Budweiser, definitely not Bud Light, it was Budweiser. With his beer rice breath on my neck I could only look down and that’s when I knew I was fucked. The guy was wearing several pair of socks, one over another and so on, no shoes.

“Hey, you’re going to break one of my ribs”, I barely speak while trying to wiggle a little room between my side and his gun. I was thirty seconds into the mugging and quite honestly something needed to happen. He wasn’t demanding or trying to take my wallet he just had me in a headlock, gun jammed into my side, beer rice breath occasionally tickling my ear. My rib comment didn’t go over well; instead, he jammed it harder into my side. “You can have what I want.” He doesn’t budge. “I have cigarettes.” Immediately he pulls away the gun and backs off. I turn around and we stare at each other, he puts his gun into the back of his pants like Axel Foley in Beverly Hills Cop.

Ten minutes ago I was walking by the alley, trying to decide between Mexican and Italian for dinner. Italian is usually better, but often too filling especially if I go anything chicken parmigiana route. Mexican is tacos which rule. I was leaning toward tacos when I was grabbed and thrown into the alley, totally fucking up my dinner decision.

Now I’m in an alley that has old plastic crates littered throughout and am still hungry. He grabs a seat on a red-like colored crate and motions for me to do the same. I consider running, but there’s still the issue of the gun so I pull up an ocean blue colored crate. “Cigarette” He says so I give him one and pull one out for myself. They are Winstons’ which draws a look of disgust from beer rice breath as he stares at the pack while putting one into his mouth. I pull out a book of matches, he snatches them and lights his cigarette and throws away the match. I take the matchbook back and light another one for myself. In between drags beer rice breath keeps bending down as if he’s in pain. Each time he bends down I can see the gun stuck in the back of his pants. The next time he bends he says, “Messed Up.”

“Don’t worry about it, just let me go and I won’t say anything.” I say and he perks up, “No, shit-guy, not this”, he waves his hands, “Everything.” Why am I shit guy? He continues and says, “It was the shoes, the stinky shoes.”

I take a final drag off my cigarette, consider the risk of putting it out in his eye and instead throw it down and step on it. “What job?”

“Listen up shit-guy, you see over there –“ He points at a bowling alley across the street. “Sure, Rusty’s Bowl-O-Rama, what about it?”

“That was my job, I cleaned the shoes. I cleaned the shoes for 10 years and then they fired me. I have not worked since.” He bends down again, exposing the gun.

I move a little bit closer, pull out another cigarette and light it. “How long ago was that?” During one of his bends beer rice guy says, “Five years shit-guy.”

I take a drag, the next time beer rice breath bends forward I offer him a cigarette, when he reaches I step on his socks and go for the gun. It’s heavy, I don’t know how you can stick that in the back of your pants. Sure it looks fucking tits, but it’s just not very practical. Beer rice breath puts up no resistance and doesn’t even turn around. I think about what would happen if I shot him in the back of the head. It would probably be loud. As I contemplate the sound the gun actually falls apart, the handle falling to the ground. I throw down the other piece. Beer rice breath starts crying, mumbles something about shoes and slides forward off the crate that now appears more orange than red, maybe rust if that’s a color. Yeah, I’d go with rust. His crate was rust colored.

I decide on Chinese food, yeah, Chinese and a good cold beer.

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About Pulp Scribbler

The Writing of David S. Grant View all posts by Pulp Scribbler

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