Page 7 of Doozer

“I’msorry, okay,” he replied without turning around.

“You don’t sound sorry, and the butt is still on the sidewalk,” I said, trying my best to keep my cool. Nothing made my blood boil faster than a bully. The fact that this bully was also a litterbug and an entitled prickwad made me burn twice as hot.

“Never mind, then,” he said, his back still to me. “I’m not sorry,bitch.”

His co-worker laughed as I reached my hand into my jacket pocket.

“I don’t give a shit if you are or aren’t sorry, asshat,” I hissed. “You’re gonna come pick this cigarette butt up.”

This got the litterbug’s full attention, and he marched right up to me as his co-worker stood by, snickering.

“What are you? The fucking trash police or something? How you gonna prove that’s even mine?” he asked through a menacing grin. His nametag merely inches from the tip of my nose. The stench of his cigarette breath pouring down on me.

“Tony, is it?”

He nodded.

“Tony, you’d better back the fuck up, and pick up your cigarette butt, now,” I growled.

“Or what?” he challenged once more. It would be his last.

I leaned in closer, casually removing my hand, now fitted with brass knuckles, from my pocket. “Wrong answer,” I whispered.

Tony’s height advantage and our proximity made it easy to deliver a clean inside shot, straight up the middle. My armored fist connecting with his jaw, dropping him straight on his ass, blood pouring from his mouth.

Tony’s little toady co-worker bolted inside the store. No doubt to call security or the police.

I grabbed a stunned Tony by the hair, pushing his head down to the ground. “Does it look familiar now or do you need a closer look?” I asked, picking up the still smoldering butt, and holding it to his face.

“No,” Tony whined through what was likely a shattered jaw.

I moved the butt closer, inching the smoldering end toward his eye. “How ’bout now?”

Cowboy rounded the corner and bellowed, “Get the fuck off him!”

I scrambled to my feet and slid the blood-covered brass knuckles back into my pocket.

“That bitch hit me,” Tony slurred.

“Did I ask you a fucking question, pecker head?” Cowboy growled down at the bleeding man.

Tony shook his head, and wisely kept his broken trap shut.

Cowboy was normally a sweetheart, but when he was pissed at you, you could feel it in your bones. He wasn’t the kind of man who demanded respect, but rather commanded it by the way he handled himself. Both his words and presence carried weight.

“Get in the truck, now,” he snapped at me.

I didn’t argue, scrambling into the warmth of the cab.

Twenty minutes later, Cowboy climbed in beside me, started the truck’s engine and without a word, drove off. For almost twenty minutes we rode in complete silence until I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Would you please just yell at me or something?” I begged. “I can’t handle the silent treatment.”

Cowboy looked at me for a second then set his eyes back to the road.

“Come on. Saysomething,” I begged.

“What do you want me to say, Trouble?” he growled. “Should we talk about how much cash it’s gonna cost the club to pay that guy’s medical bills and keep him from pressing charges? Or about the three years’ time you’d do just for having those knuckles, not to mention what you just did with them.”

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