The Dutiful Son -- fiction

I've been writing fiction too, you know. On the sly. And three times I've come back to this bar, where Vincent works. I figure I should post them, instead of sitting on them. So here's the first one. I'll post the other two in the next few days. Feedback would be appreciated. Offers of money would be even more appreciated.


The Dutiful Son
By Nikolaus Maack

"Y'ever been to prison, kid?"

"No, man. No."

Everything in the bar glistened like it was coated in oil. Even the few people there had a sheen to them -- part sweat, part air-conditioning.

"You think you could handle prison, kid? If you had to?"

The kid was named Pootey. He dressed like he was daring someone to call him stupid. Backwards baseball cap, white t-shirt, baggie jeans hanging half off his ass to show his boxer shorts, a silver chain around his neck with a miniature hand-grenade pendant.

"I don't know, Victor. I figure, I don't have a lot going for me out here. It's rough. I don't really see how things would be any different inside, you know? It's rough all over."

Victor showed his teeth in a tight, narrow grin. "You'd be dead or giving blowjobs in five minutes. You don't know a fucking thing. That's okay. We all start off knowing sweet fuck all. We all came out of our mothers' cunts like that. It's part of the divine plan."

"You believe in God?" Pootey asked.

"Sometimes," Victor said. "When it's raining, and I've got nothing else to do."

"Okay," Pootey said, not getting it.

Victor was one of those guys that looks like he's a million years old, and is never going to die. Big, fat, but solid, with hands like sledgehammers. He wasn't dressed up. Jeans and a black t-shirt, with his gray hair cut short. No jewellery. Dirty sneakers. His face was all smooth folds, with two dead black eyes in the middle, a small slit for a mouth.

"So what do you want the gun for?" Victor asked.

"Protection," Pootey said.

"Protection. From what?"

"Y'know. The street," Pootey said.

"You want to spend five hundred dollars of your money to protect yourself from the street."

"That's right," Pootey said.

"Bullshit. Really, it's none of my fucking business. I could just give the gun to you, take your money. But I'm old, and I don't understand kids like you. What the fuck makes kids like you the way you are?"

"I don't know. What way am I?"

"You're like those new drinks they've got -- premixed drinks, in bottles. I get people coming into my bar, they don't want us to make them a drink. They want to buy pre-made shit, in fucking bottles. Some guy came in yesterday, he wants a Long Island Iced Tea, but he mentions some fucking brand name, says he wants that. In a fucking bottle. I tell him we make a fine Long Island Iced Tea ourselves. No, he says he wants the fucking brand name, and he walks out. What the fuck is that, Pootey? Do you understand that shit?"

"Naw, I don't get it," Pootey said. "I don't drink."

Victor blinked. He looked at the drink sitting next to Pootey's elbow, on the table. Beer in a glass, untouched. Victor waved the bartender over.

"Take the beer, give him a Coke or something," Victor said, then to Pootey, "You should have said something."

"I didn't want to show disrespect."

"Then tell me what you want the fucking gun for."

Pootey didn't say anything. The bartender came back with the Coke, dropped it off, went away. Victor and Pootey sat there in a long silence.

"My father," Pootey finally said. "He's been hitting my mother. Real bad. He gets drunk, and he beats her."

"You going to kill him?"

Pootey paused, winced slightly. "I think so."

"You're buying a gun to kill somebody, you can't be fucking half-way on the thing, kid. It's an all or none deal."

Pootey's muscles tensed up all over, and his face went dark. "Yeah, I'm going to kill him."

Victor leaned back in his chair. "I believe you. Then what? Flee to Mexico?"

"I don't care. I can't let it happen again. She's my mother."

"She can't leave him? She too scared, got no family? Ashamed?"

"She won't leave him," Pootey said. "I try to tell her, but she won't listen. Says she can't go, and... She doesn't want to leave the apartment, and... She's... old."

"It happens," Victor said thoughtfully. "So you're gonna plug your old man, go to jail, break your mother's heart?"

"He'll fucking kill her, next time!"

"All right, all right," Victor said. "I'm just jerking you off a little. Don't cum in my face."

Victor folded his hands together and twiddled his thumbs for a moment, considering Pootey with a solid stare. Then he waved the bartender over again. "What's your dad like to drink?" Victor asked Pootey.

"Rye."

"Give the kid a bottle of rye," Victor said to the bartender.

The man nodded, went away.

"I told you," Pootey said, uncertain, "I don't drink."

"I remember," Victor said cheerfully.

The bartender came back, put the bottle on the table, and left.

"You give this gift to your father," Victor said, leaning forward. "And you give this gift to your mother." Under the table, he passed a gun over to Pootey. The boy quickly pocketed it. "When your dad gets sloshed and starts a fight, she'll have a little something in her corner. Tell her to wait til he's close. No fucking William Tell shit. What with her bruises, neighbours knowing everything, cops won't give a fuck about some dead asshole. Battered spouse syndrome or some shit -- saw it on CNN. Means a wife can shoot a husband if the husband's a fucking prick. Pretty sweet deal, really."

"I could shoot him, and she could say she did it," Pootey suggested.

"No, kid, she has to do it. Because you do it, after, she'll crack, and she'll NARC on your ass. That's just what marriage does to a person. Even as your pop is beating on her, some fucked up piece of her remembers the guy that convinced her to say 'I do'. That's how it goes."

"The cops will want to know where the gun came from."

"She got it from you. You were concerned. And if they ask you where you got it, you mention the Pretty Penny Pawn Shop. Got that?"

“Pretty Penny Pawn Shop,” Pootie said.

“Right. Down on Nelson street. The place is run by fucking retards. Cops'll buy it."

"What if she doesn't shoot? What if she can't do it?"

"Then you've done your part. You tried. You can't do more than that. Get it? You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make the fucker water ski."

Pootey reached in his pocket, "Your money..."

"Keep it," Victor said. "My father wanted me to be some fucking criminal lawyer. Instead, I became a criminal bartender. But I still like to do a little pro fucking bono now and then." Victor got up out of his chair. "I guess I'm old, and I don't understand a fucking thing, but if I can help out, why the fuck not."

"You're not so old," Pootey said.

"Stop sucking my fucking dick," Victor said pleasantly. "Now finish your Coke, and get the fuck out of my bar."

Victor went into the back office. He just sat for a bit, then started looking at the books for the past week. The numbers were small. If he kept up his pro fucking bono much longer he'd be bust. Still, it made some part of his guts go all warm, so what the hell. Better than drugs.

A few minutes later, the bartender came in. "That kid, he left five hundred bucks on the table."

"What are you telling me for?" Victor asked.

"It's yours, ain't it?"

"Not mine," Victor said.

"But, then, why'd he leave it?"

"I guess he left it for you. He must be one of them big fucking tippers. Appreciates your good service. They're a dying breed, Jack. Count yourself fucking lucky."