Page 102 of Wicked Pickle

“Well, there’s my knight in shining armor,” one woman says. “Good luck.” She doesn’t even greet the man as she heads out the door. He follows.

“See ya next weekend, Charles,” says the officer in the window before narrowing his eyes at us and closing it.

The door has barely clicked shut when it opens again. This time, it’s a big-bellied man in a white shirt and trousers that probably came from the 1970s and not in the fashionable, hip, vintage way.

“Merrick Packwood and Dean Packwood?” he calls.

We stand. Finally.

As we walk his way, he holds up his hand. “Sorry, but the permit officer isn’t here today.”

The word explodes out of my mouth before I can catch it. “What? We’ve been here for hours.”

He shrugs. “The clerk wanted to check with me before telling you to leave.”

“For six hours?” I’m ready to cold-cock this man in his smug face.

“Try again tomorrow.” He turns for the door.

I’m ready to grab his arm, but I catch the uniformed officer watching me from behind the glass. Yeah, they want a reason to arrest me. “Will the permit officer be here tomorrow?”

The man shrugs. “You should call.”

“We did call.”

The door closes behind him.

Oh, my fucking God. What the actual fuck?

I press the heel of my hand into my eye.

“I guess we’re out of here,” Merrick says.

I storm my way across the room and shove on the door. “I think we’re done with the whole damn thing.”

Dust churns from under my boots as I cross the gravel lot.

Merrick rushes to catch up with me. “What do you mean?”

The sun is blinding, and the heat fuels my rage. “I mean, this was a fucking stupid idea. Just put the goddamn bar up for sale.”

“What the hell, man?” He jerks on my arm.

“It’s pointless. Just fucking let the Pickles have it. I’ll fucking re-enlist. Anything is better than this.” I try to shake him off.

“So, that’s it? Like a fucking coward?” Merrick’s face is livid.

I turn to face him. “The deck is stacked. It always was. People like our fucking uncle rule the goddamn world. Nobody else is getting anywhere.” I turn to the truck.

Merrick’s next words strike me cold. “Then let him fucking fix it.”

I whirl around. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I take a swing at him.

He ducks and spins to my left. “Why the fuck not? Use his money instead of us pissing it away.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I run toward him, the flaps of my suit jacket flying behind me.

He stands his ground. “You’re being fucking stupid.”

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