Sharon was in the bathroom when Dean let Petey in. She was blowing her nose, sniffing some water for comfort and examining her skin in the mirror when she decided to leave the bathroom. As she approached the doorway to the living room she saw the men in a Mexican stand-off, sitting down.
“Oh.” She mouthed. Dean looked at her quickly as her presence caught the attention of the other two men she recognized as Petey and Little John.
“If you so much as look at her, I will blow you both away before you can blink.” Dean said matter of factly. They rested their eyes between one another. Petey sat on the floor by the coffee table, Little John was on the floor by the curios cabinet and Dean was the tip of the triangle facing both of them, gun in hand and one on his lap.
“This is why I don’t like having people over who don’t call first. Someone comes over and has a hot temper and the next thing I know, I’ve got two high and angry thieves arguing over how what they stole rightfully belongs to them and somehow I’m threatened because one of you thinks I owe you money for dealing with the other." The guns remained pointed at one another. Sharon inched into the door frame just a little more in case Dean had an instruction for her.
“Dean, I need that money. I’m not trying to be unreasonable. You don’t understand. Petey had no right taking that shit out of my house and bringing it here.”
“Maybe not. But that’s not my problem. I already paid for it and sold it to someone else. You want money for it then ask Petey here.”
“I had to pay my kid’s medical bill this week. He got hurt real bad in that car accident last week.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t fucked up, Petey, you ever think of that?” Dean said. Petey looked as if he was on the verge of crying. He’d hit his last straw with Little John and there was hell to pay regardless.
“I’m going to ask you to respect my house and to put your guns down.” Dean said.
Petey leaned forward and placed his gun into the back of his pants, resigned.
“Do what you need to do.” He told them both.
“I can make things real ugly for you Dean if you don’t give me some money for that shit.” Little John said.
“I’m not condoning what Petey did, but it’s done and your beef isn’t with me, it’s with him.”
“No, Dean, it’s with you too. You know better than to let this punk hustle shit up in here. Buyer needs to beware and you went behind my back.”
“I think you’ve got this all wrong. First of all both of you punks owe me money. I took that shit off of Petey’s hands to help him earn the money he owed me and I was even nice enough to give him some back so he could get his kids painkillers. Second, you still owe me money. So I’ll be the good guy again and there’s still a couple of items in the backroom. I’ll give them to you, you can go sell them yourself and then bring me back the money you owe me. How about that?”
“I can’t sell that shit, Dean, you’re the person I’d bring it to.”
“Well, it’s not my problem now. It’s what you wanted.” Dean leapt to his feet, standing over Little John and knocked the pistol out of his hand in one swift movement, it skirted across the carpet near Sharon. She picked it up with her sleeve and held it like a rat by the tail.
Dean came over and put the small gun in his pocket, he walked to the backroom and retrieved a duffle bag, he threw it to Little John. Cigarette in his mouth, unlit, he grinded the butt between his teeth, then walked back into the backroom and came out with a shotgun.
Sharon picked up the kitten that had come out from its nap and walked quickly to the kitchen.
Petey and Little John stood.
“Get out.” Dean growled, sounding like Clint Eastwood.
“Dean,” Little John began, but Dean cocked the gun. He no longer looked calm and patient, his pupils engulfed his blue irises and reflected red.
Petey walked to the door and opened it.
“Dean, man…” The gun created a massive hole in the wall by the door, the bullet barreling through the pantry and into the sink. Petey stumbled behind the iron security door. His footsteps hammered down the stairs.
“Dean, I am sorry.” Little John said, and the gun cocked again. He carried the duffle bag with his head hung down to the door. Dean followed him and aimed the shotgun at him as he went down the stairs. When Little John was out of the stairwell, he put the gun safely down against the wall and walked to the balcony to watch his unwanted company leave.
When he returned to the living room Sharon and the kitten were sitting on the floor, as if nothing had happened.
“Want a fresh cigarette?” She asked as he sat down. He shook his head and lit the stub, took one drag and put it out.
His phone lit up and jingled. A text message. He opened the phone and smirked. “You’re dead Dean. Dead. Next time I come, I’m taking all your business.” The phone came to life again. “No one fucks with Little John. I’m coming back when you least expect it. I’ll kill your cat and feed it to you.”
“Nice friends.” Sharon said.
“Yeah. Some fucking guy who comes around here introduced us so I could buy some components and then they started coming around with more shit, which was cool but they acted like they were entitled. I give them fair prices and they buy some shit from me now and then but they’re always up to something shady. It’s always someone’s shit that they know or that someone else knows, they need to get out of their backyards. I don’t need this shit. I was just trying to help Petey get some money for his kids medication. He drove the car into the center divider and the kid is paralyzed, maybe not permanently but if he doesn’t get his treatment and therapy who knows. I don’t need any of that drama. Little John thinks he’s some kind of bad ass because his cousin is the head of the operations down by the beach. That don’t mean shit to me, I heard his cousin is just as annoyed with him, he’d probably thank me if he disappeared. Now, he’s gonna try and man up and show up here with some kids and steal my shit or shoot up the place. It’s a good thing I have nothing to live for; I’d probably kill them.” The kitten curled up on his lap.
“So, what are you going to do?” Sharon asked.
“What can I do? They aren’t going to get me out on the street. If they show up here, I’ve got an arsenal ready for them." This was true. Within reach at any given area there was a gun, knife, mace, or taser that could ward off aggressive thugs. Dean was calculated and methodical and anyone rushing in for glory would not get the best of him.
The phone went off again. Little John wanted Dean to take back the goods he gave him and pick up some dope to call it even.
“These fucking people are crazy.” He mumbled. He wrote back to Little John that if this was his rouse to get in when he least expected it, he expected it and he didn’t really need the goods back, they were hard to move, if he only wanted to score in the first place, why didn’t he just say so instead of making a scene. Little John swore it was not a trick to get in and cause harm. He wanted to make good on the situation.
Dean relented and an hour later Little John was back at the door. This time he was all handshakes and apologies. “Dean, man, Petey just gets me wound up like that you know. I know you didn’t mean no harm dawg. You didn’t know that shit was to go through me. Look if you can just hook me up, I’ll forget about it, you can have this shit back, someone must need it.”
And like that, everything was normal again.
Dean slowly created a package for him to leave with. While he measured and prepared, Little John continued his rant on how he’d thought Dean and Petey went behind his back and did dirt, he didn’t know that Petey hadn’t told him it was to be split among them. He wouldn’t ever call his people on him, he didn’t even know why he’d said that. He was just so angry and so pissed that Dean had taken his gun and thrown him out and he’d had no redemption for his trouble, he couldn’t handle it. His temper, he admitted, was his Achilles heel. Dean slid the pistol to him on the floor, Little John thanked him and put it in his jacket pocket. He then took the package and put it in his breast pocket. Waiting courteously for Dean to dismiss him he made small talk about upcoming items coming in and made sure to mention his cousin a half dozen times.
“Little John,” Dean addressed him, placing a cigarette stub into his mouth, his teeth gritting again. He took it out and held it as if to ash. “Do not ever come back here again. I’ve got the green light on you.” Little John stood up at the same time as Dean.
“Dean, you can’t get no green light on me, I’m part of the family.”
“You’re a part of the family they are always worrying about. If you come back here again, I’m going to get the tarp out and kill you, right here.” Reaching behind him, he picked up the shot gun. The metal sound clicked into place. Little John seemed confused.
“Ralphie wouldn’t give you the green light.” Little John insisted, stuttering in his betrayal.
“Ralphie didn’t, but he’s not stopping me either. It was your Uncle, Big John. You’ve been ripping him off and his friends. You’ve been throwing your connections out there expecting everyone to bow down to you but your family is sick of cleaning up your messes. You come by here ever again, you even walk down this block and I see you and I will,” he pointed to the video screen on the laptop beside Sharon, “without hesitation shoot you on site and I don’t just have your family’s permission but I can get a blind eye from the Coastal division too. I don’t have to throw names around Little John. I don’t talk just to hear myself or throw weight around that I can’t back up. You think you know anything about me?”
“I don’t believe you Dean.”
“When have I ever lied?” Dean put the cigarette back to his lips. “All these months, you ever see me do anything but tell the truth and be fair?” The gun leveled at Little John’s gut.
“You ain’t the only guy in town.” Little John said.
“Take your business elsewhere, you ain’t making me no money!” The gun pressed into his stomach. His finger moved to the trigger. “Say something, I fucking dare you.” Little John had words forming but couldn’t expel the sound of them. He could tell that Dean had crossed over to an irrational side and was no longer restrained.
“Dean, no.” Sharon said softly. He glared at her with animal disgust and for a second Sharon wondered if she’d gone too far.
“You better get the fuck out of here,” Dean said in a taunting voice, he held the rifle against his chest as he leaned down and retrieved the mace spraying it into Little John’s face. “Find the door Little John or it’s going to get a lot worse.” Little John succumbed to the tears and blindly felt in front of him. Sharon got up from the floor and went through the kitchen to open the front doors. Dean was inching Little John to the door by gouging him with the shotgun in the ribs, back or back of his head. Little John stumbled out the door and fell down half the stairs.
“My ankle.” He cried reaching for the handrail. Dean had pulled his tazer from the pantry and walked down the stairs toward Little John, shooting him with a volt that sent him screaming and tumbling to the asphalt.
“You better start running. I’ve come this far out of the house, what’s to stop me now?” He smiled like a madman who had finally cracked under pressure.
“Dean.” Sharon said from the front door. He looked up and she broke the spell. “Come inside, where’s a broom? We need to sweep up the dots.”
Dean walked up slowly, almost with a drunk stagger, tired, adrenaline draining from him he pulled the broom from behind the trashcan, he picked up the dustpan and they swept the stairs. Once they were clean, if not cleaner than before, he closed the screen door and locked it. The neighbors could be heard bringing groceries up the stairs, to think, they had just missed the insanity.
Sitting down he opened a trunk and pulled out a prescription bottle of xanax, he chewed half the pill and placed it gingerly into the box, closing the lid.
“You see what I put up with?” He shook his head, twisted a cap off the Gatorade punch and took a swig. “I am constantly being ripped off, disrespected, threatened and for what? I can’t even pay my rent doing this shit anymore.” He found another cigarette stub and placed it to his lips. “I guess it’s good I knew this came with the territory. One minute they want to kill you and the next they are crying about how you’re the only one they trust.” He lit the stub, took a drag and put it out.
“Why don’t you do something else?” She asked.
“I can’t.” She knew the drill. His tattoos made him a freak to the normal corporate world. His career as a tattoo artist was fine but the market was over saturated and he didn’t want to be part of the current trend. He never left the house unless it was an emergency 7/11 visit at three a.m. or an all day excursion to Fry’s Electronics for his projects at home. He was no longer part of society. He existed only in the underworld now.
“I just need a couple of good customers again. I told you someone came in here and stole some of my best spenders. If I could just get two or three I’d be set. I’m cutting out all the drama but that means hardly any income.”
“Good customers?” She said and they laughed at the irony.
“Oh.” She mouthed. Dean looked at her quickly as her presence caught the attention of the other two men she recognized as Petey and Little John.
“If you so much as look at her, I will blow you both away before you can blink.” Dean said matter of factly. They rested their eyes between one another. Petey sat on the floor by the coffee table, Little John was on the floor by the curios cabinet and Dean was the tip of the triangle facing both of them, gun in hand and one on his lap.
“This is why I don’t like having people over who don’t call first. Someone comes over and has a hot temper and the next thing I know, I’ve got two high and angry thieves arguing over how what they stole rightfully belongs to them and somehow I’m threatened because one of you thinks I owe you money for dealing with the other." The guns remained pointed at one another. Sharon inched into the door frame just a little more in case Dean had an instruction for her.
“Dean, I need that money. I’m not trying to be unreasonable. You don’t understand. Petey had no right taking that shit out of my house and bringing it here.”
“Maybe not. But that’s not my problem. I already paid for it and sold it to someone else. You want money for it then ask Petey here.”
“I had to pay my kid’s medical bill this week. He got hurt real bad in that car accident last week.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t fucked up, Petey, you ever think of that?” Dean said. Petey looked as if he was on the verge of crying. He’d hit his last straw with Little John and there was hell to pay regardless.
“I’m going to ask you to respect my house and to put your guns down.” Dean said.
Petey leaned forward and placed his gun into the back of his pants, resigned.
“Do what you need to do.” He told them both.
“I can make things real ugly for you Dean if you don’t give me some money for that shit.” Little John said.
“I’m not condoning what Petey did, but it’s done and your beef isn’t with me, it’s with him.”
“No, Dean, it’s with you too. You know better than to let this punk hustle shit up in here. Buyer needs to beware and you went behind my back.”
“I think you’ve got this all wrong. First of all both of you punks owe me money. I took that shit off of Petey’s hands to help him earn the money he owed me and I was even nice enough to give him some back so he could get his kids painkillers. Second, you still owe me money. So I’ll be the good guy again and there’s still a couple of items in the backroom. I’ll give them to you, you can go sell them yourself and then bring me back the money you owe me. How about that?”
“I can’t sell that shit, Dean, you’re the person I’d bring it to.”
“Well, it’s not my problem now. It’s what you wanted.” Dean leapt to his feet, standing over Little John and knocked the pistol out of his hand in one swift movement, it skirted across the carpet near Sharon. She picked it up with her sleeve and held it like a rat by the tail.
Dean came over and put the small gun in his pocket, he walked to the backroom and retrieved a duffle bag, he threw it to Little John. Cigarette in his mouth, unlit, he grinded the butt between his teeth, then walked back into the backroom and came out with a shotgun.
Sharon picked up the kitten that had come out from its nap and walked quickly to the kitchen.
Petey and Little John stood.
“Get out.” Dean growled, sounding like Clint Eastwood.
“Dean,” Little John began, but Dean cocked the gun. He no longer looked calm and patient, his pupils engulfed his blue irises and reflected red.
Petey walked to the door and opened it.
“Dean, man…” The gun created a massive hole in the wall by the door, the bullet barreling through the pantry and into the sink. Petey stumbled behind the iron security door. His footsteps hammered down the stairs.
“Dean, I am sorry.” Little John said, and the gun cocked again. He carried the duffle bag with his head hung down to the door. Dean followed him and aimed the shotgun at him as he went down the stairs. When Little John was out of the stairwell, he put the gun safely down against the wall and walked to the balcony to watch his unwanted company leave.
When he returned to the living room Sharon and the kitten were sitting on the floor, as if nothing had happened.
“Want a fresh cigarette?” She asked as he sat down. He shook his head and lit the stub, took one drag and put it out.
His phone lit up and jingled. A text message. He opened the phone and smirked. “You’re dead Dean. Dead. Next time I come, I’m taking all your business.” The phone came to life again. “No one fucks with Little John. I’m coming back when you least expect it. I’ll kill your cat and feed it to you.”
“Nice friends.” Sharon said.
“Yeah. Some fucking guy who comes around here introduced us so I could buy some components and then they started coming around with more shit, which was cool but they acted like they were entitled. I give them fair prices and they buy some shit from me now and then but they’re always up to something shady. It’s always someone’s shit that they know or that someone else knows, they need to get out of their backyards. I don’t need this shit. I was just trying to help Petey get some money for his kids medication. He drove the car into the center divider and the kid is paralyzed, maybe not permanently but if he doesn’t get his treatment and therapy who knows. I don’t need any of that drama. Little John thinks he’s some kind of bad ass because his cousin is the head of the operations down by the beach. That don’t mean shit to me, I heard his cousin is just as annoyed with him, he’d probably thank me if he disappeared. Now, he’s gonna try and man up and show up here with some kids and steal my shit or shoot up the place. It’s a good thing I have nothing to live for; I’d probably kill them.” The kitten curled up on his lap.
“So, what are you going to do?” Sharon asked.
“What can I do? They aren’t going to get me out on the street. If they show up here, I’ve got an arsenal ready for them." This was true. Within reach at any given area there was a gun, knife, mace, or taser that could ward off aggressive thugs. Dean was calculated and methodical and anyone rushing in for glory would not get the best of him.
The phone went off again. Little John wanted Dean to take back the goods he gave him and pick up some dope to call it even.
“These fucking people are crazy.” He mumbled. He wrote back to Little John that if this was his rouse to get in when he least expected it, he expected it and he didn’t really need the goods back, they were hard to move, if he only wanted to score in the first place, why didn’t he just say so instead of making a scene. Little John swore it was not a trick to get in and cause harm. He wanted to make good on the situation.
Dean relented and an hour later Little John was back at the door. This time he was all handshakes and apologies. “Dean, man, Petey just gets me wound up like that you know. I know you didn’t mean no harm dawg. You didn’t know that shit was to go through me. Look if you can just hook me up, I’ll forget about it, you can have this shit back, someone must need it.”
And like that, everything was normal again.
Dean slowly created a package for him to leave with. While he measured and prepared, Little John continued his rant on how he’d thought Dean and Petey went behind his back and did dirt, he didn’t know that Petey hadn’t told him it was to be split among them. He wouldn’t ever call his people on him, he didn’t even know why he’d said that. He was just so angry and so pissed that Dean had taken his gun and thrown him out and he’d had no redemption for his trouble, he couldn’t handle it. His temper, he admitted, was his Achilles heel. Dean slid the pistol to him on the floor, Little John thanked him and put it in his jacket pocket. He then took the package and put it in his breast pocket. Waiting courteously for Dean to dismiss him he made small talk about upcoming items coming in and made sure to mention his cousin a half dozen times.
“Little John,” Dean addressed him, placing a cigarette stub into his mouth, his teeth gritting again. He took it out and held it as if to ash. “Do not ever come back here again. I’ve got the green light on you.” Little John stood up at the same time as Dean.
“Dean, you can’t get no green light on me, I’m part of the family.”
“You’re a part of the family they are always worrying about. If you come back here again, I’m going to get the tarp out and kill you, right here.” Reaching behind him, he picked up the shot gun. The metal sound clicked into place. Little John seemed confused.
“Ralphie wouldn’t give you the green light.” Little John insisted, stuttering in his betrayal.
“Ralphie didn’t, but he’s not stopping me either. It was your Uncle, Big John. You’ve been ripping him off and his friends. You’ve been throwing your connections out there expecting everyone to bow down to you but your family is sick of cleaning up your messes. You come by here ever again, you even walk down this block and I see you and I will,” he pointed to the video screen on the laptop beside Sharon, “without hesitation shoot you on site and I don’t just have your family’s permission but I can get a blind eye from the Coastal division too. I don’t have to throw names around Little John. I don’t talk just to hear myself or throw weight around that I can’t back up. You think you know anything about me?”
“I don’t believe you Dean.”
“When have I ever lied?” Dean put the cigarette back to his lips. “All these months, you ever see me do anything but tell the truth and be fair?” The gun leveled at Little John’s gut.
“You ain’t the only guy in town.” Little John said.
“Take your business elsewhere, you ain’t making me no money!” The gun pressed into his stomach. His finger moved to the trigger. “Say something, I fucking dare you.” Little John had words forming but couldn’t expel the sound of them. He could tell that Dean had crossed over to an irrational side and was no longer restrained.
“Dean, no.” Sharon said softly. He glared at her with animal disgust and for a second Sharon wondered if she’d gone too far.
“You better get the fuck out of here,” Dean said in a taunting voice, he held the rifle against his chest as he leaned down and retrieved the mace spraying it into Little John’s face. “Find the door Little John or it’s going to get a lot worse.” Little John succumbed to the tears and blindly felt in front of him. Sharon got up from the floor and went through the kitchen to open the front doors. Dean was inching Little John to the door by gouging him with the shotgun in the ribs, back or back of his head. Little John stumbled out the door and fell down half the stairs.
“My ankle.” He cried reaching for the handrail. Dean had pulled his tazer from the pantry and walked down the stairs toward Little John, shooting him with a volt that sent him screaming and tumbling to the asphalt.
“You better start running. I’ve come this far out of the house, what’s to stop me now?” He smiled like a madman who had finally cracked under pressure.
“Dean.” Sharon said from the front door. He looked up and she broke the spell. “Come inside, where’s a broom? We need to sweep up the dots.”
Dean walked up slowly, almost with a drunk stagger, tired, adrenaline draining from him he pulled the broom from behind the trashcan, he picked up the dustpan and they swept the stairs. Once they were clean, if not cleaner than before, he closed the screen door and locked it. The neighbors could be heard bringing groceries up the stairs, to think, they had just missed the insanity.
Sitting down he opened a trunk and pulled out a prescription bottle of xanax, he chewed half the pill and placed it gingerly into the box, closing the lid.
“You see what I put up with?” He shook his head, twisted a cap off the Gatorade punch and took a swig. “I am constantly being ripped off, disrespected, threatened and for what? I can’t even pay my rent doing this shit anymore.” He found another cigarette stub and placed it to his lips. “I guess it’s good I knew this came with the territory. One minute they want to kill you and the next they are crying about how you’re the only one they trust.” He lit the stub, took a drag and put it out.
“Why don’t you do something else?” She asked.
“I can’t.” She knew the drill. His tattoos made him a freak to the normal corporate world. His career as a tattoo artist was fine but the market was over saturated and he didn’t want to be part of the current trend. He never left the house unless it was an emergency 7/11 visit at three a.m. or an all day excursion to Fry’s Electronics for his projects at home. He was no longer part of society. He existed only in the underworld now.
“I just need a couple of good customers again. I told you someone came in here and stole some of my best spenders. If I could just get two or three I’d be set. I’m cutting out all the drama but that means hardly any income.”
“Good customers?” She said and they laughed at the irony.
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