Two weeks ago I was having some after-work brews at Jimbo’s bar. A buddy of mine pointed at Frank McDonnell. The cantankerous fat fart listened to talk radio, believing that America’s been screwed ever since Reagan left office. Don’t get me wrong, I lean right of center, but people who callous their knees from sucking Limbaugh’s dick give the rest of us a bad name.
“Hey, Frank,” my buddy shouted, elbowing me. I knew what was coming next. “Heard a rumor you voted for Obama.”
Frank slammed his Coors Light on the bar. The Light hadn’t helped his gut any.
“Horseshit! Who’s been sayin’ that? I’d rather eat my own fingers than vote for that racist socialist Nazi. He wants to take our guns so them Muslims can take over.”
The whole bar laughed.
“Heard Obama’s got a list of American gun owners and your name’s at the top,” another guy shouted. “You’re gonna have to turn yours over to him.”
“Over my dead body. Second Amendment guarantees they’re mine. Make guns illegal an’ only criminals will have ‘em.”
“But what does Obama think about the Constitution?” I asked.
“That no good half-breed wants to burn it. But ain’t nobody takin’ Stonewall, Patton, Chuck, or Lily-Beth away from me.”
Our eyes widened. What the hell?
“Who’s Chuck?” somebody asked.
Frank stood tall as a smile crossed his lips. “Chuck’s my Bushmaster XM-fifteen heavy carbine. Will knock down a dozen men in a second.”
“Like Chuck Norris?” I asked.
“Exactly.”
“What about Lily-Beth?” the bartender asked.
“Lily-Beth.” Frank’s face glowed with fatherly pride. “She’s a beauty. A lil’ palm-sized stainless steel three-fifty-seven cannon. Might be small, but don’t mess with her.”
“Know what I heard?” I asked.
“What’s that?” Frank’s eyes were wide and expectant like his pistol won the spelling bee or something.
“Lily-Beth’s a whore.”
The entire bar busted out laughing. Beer shot out of some guy’s nose. Before I could catch my breath, I was looking at her. Lily-Beth. That shiny pocket-rocket was pressed against my forehead.
Frank wasn’t smiling none. All of his self-righteous anger was pointed down a one-and-half inch snubnosed barrel. Barflies scurried from their stools. While I’d like to say I was brave, I wasn’t. I shook like a three-year-old girl who’d lost her parents.
“Apologize to Lily-Beth. Right. Now.”
“I-I’m sorry Lily-Beth.”
“Louder, boy. I want all these asswipes to hear ya.”
“S-s-sorry… Lily-Beth.”
“Uh-huh, I bet you are.” He eased the hammer back with his thumb. “Best you watch your back, son.”
He shoved Lily-Beth down his pants and ambled out the front door. Everybody watched with open mouths.
Buddies and complete strangers tried to cheer me up, offering free drinks and cracking wise about how Lily-Beth slept around. But I was trembling too much to enjoy it, wondering if I still had ammo for the gun buried deep in my closet.
***
Can’t say I’ve ever been into guns even though I was raised with them. That night I lay in bed with a single shot .410 across my chest. Such a puny weapon it could hardly knock over a squirrel. Listening to every sound outside, I knew I needed more firepower.
Next morning I went to Walmart and bought a Colt Carbine Semi-Automatic Rifle. The salesman said it’s like the army’s M-16. I felt confident, but I couldn’t carry it everywhere and it sure wasn’t practical for my roofing job. So I went to a pawnshop and bought a sweet Beretta I could carry in a holster. Friends called me paranoid, but they didn’t have to worry about a nutjob whose best friends were Patton and Stonewall.
Then last night I bumped into Frank leaving the john at Jimbo’s. He glared at me and then at Tyson on my hip. My body tensed, ready to whip out Tyson and make a personal introduction between his eyes.
“That there a Beretta 92FS?”
I nodded.
“Shoot it much?”
“Enough,” I said, trying to sound threatening. My hand hovered near Tyson, waiting for Frank to reach for Lily-Beth.
Didn’t happen. Instead Frank invited me, Tyson, and Tyson’s big brother, Maximus, to the dump tomorrow for target practice.
