mfiii
There was this intangible thing about it, like some of us didnt belong and others had belonged for too long. But when he walked through the door, we felt it. It couldn'd be quantified, nor could it be scientifically analyzed, but we each knew it was palpable. He bound us, with his grandeur and his progressiveness and his antiquity the same. We were in his ship, awaiting our captain, and he had just lifted anchor.
"Where did you buy that silver spoon," she asked.
"It wasn't bought or incurred, I assure you. It was earned," he replied.
"May I?" she asked, this time leaning in, tongue half obscured by her pouty lips.
"Of course. What is mine is now everybody's."
You could hear the blast from a two miles out, but you weren't two miles out.You were a hundred feet from the grenade blast. You hear stories, but they never tell you about the pieces of earth hurled at you. Sure, the shrapnel cuts you, but it's the stone that bludgeons you, the wayward rock that concusses you. And ultimately, when you're in that trench, you either hope that that rock knocks you out cold before the enemy storms your keep, or better yet, knocks you dead to spare you the long, painful agony, because when you're out there, the only certainty is death.
"Jameson! I say, you old chap, I haven't seen you in, what, 15 odd years? Have a scotch with your old buddy." And he stood above me with his hands out in a hugging motion.
I stared back at him, silent, and he began to look confused. Marcus was one of those privileged Chi Kappa boys, used to beat on us during rush, used to get us bloody. Sure, I'd had a few drinks with him in the past, mostly because of unfortunate proximity, but he wasn't my kin, my ilk, heck, we didn't even see eye-to-eye politically.
"I don't know you," I finally squeaked out, hands clenched.
"Jameson, it's me, Marcus. Chi Kappa. We kicked the shit out of London together, didn't we, old boy?..." Still confused, he motioned towards the cocktail waitress to bring two drinks.
"I don't know you at all," I said.
"Mmm, that's an extremely interesting flavor," she starts, after tasting the stew for the first time. "I like how tender it is."
"You'd be surprised," I reply. "Sometimes, there is no skill involved at all. More luck than anything. It's not like I can go and kill the person...er, I mean...kill the cow myself." and I fork another helping into my mouth, mostly to shut myself up but also because I enjoy a woman's calf the most.
"Mine are better," she snarled. "They're bigger."
"No, mine are," another said. "They're rounder and better proportioned."
"Well, mine have better color and don't hang as low," a third chimed.
"Mine are perfect," a fourth girl uttered. "They're small but made of better material. You may even say mine are perky,"
"Oh, I love those," Eleanor lipped across the dining room, surely to some vague acquaintance hadn't seen in some-odd months, probably sitting with her husband or lesbian lover or both at the other side of the restaurant.
"Honey, you're not listening to me." I returned, sternly, grabbing her by the wrist.
"Oh, gosh, Teddy, get over it. I'm so sick of you being so serious. What is it now? You didn't get you early afternoon Perrier?" She pulled her hand back.
"I want a divorce." I said, the words hanging loosely like apples. "Not like the fake, stay-separated-for-six-months-and-get-back-together kind of divorce. I want a real one."
Her face made a sound when it smacked against the pavement. Those who were there might say they heard a bone break.
"Here's your goddamn bread," he yelled at her, whipping a loaf off of her rib, which had surely been broken from the beating. "If I catch you sneaking around my bakery again, it'll be a whole lot worse, I'll assure you that much."
He patted his goon on the chest and laughed as they slammed the door shut behind her. She tried to rise from the wet ground, but her arms were too weak, and instead clutched the day-old loaf that was afforded her. She knew the ony thing that would wash it down was the blood she tasted with her tongue.
It danced in the air, one side charred black, and the other, gleaming metal. I knew my fate as soon as he had flipped the coin, revolver in his off hand, pointed at my sternum. I wish I could say I had a wife to think of in these moments, a child to be so proud of. I wish I could say I didn't deserve this. But I did. And the small chunk of metal finished its arced path in an instant, landing on the oak table of the rathskeller. And it careened on its edges. And it made me think about my misgivings a second longer before it settled on a side.
"I guess today is not the day you die," the man said.
The excess water dripped off the eaves, into the small wooden bucket placed below. She looked up at the worn gutter, beaten and bruised herself, and laughed. "Your trash is my treasure."
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