Morris
…turned the wheel of his ’92 custom Lincoln Continental into the Kwik Trip parking lot. His eyes looked down at the 9mm Beretta he cradled in his left hand and marveled at its shear beauty. I hope it doesn’t go off in my lap … get me right in the nads. “Ha!” He let out a hoot. As his car careened into the parking lot he looked up just in time to avoid a tremendous figure of a lady moving faster than anyone that size should move. Quickly he jerked the steering wheel to the right and missed her by inches. She appeared consumed in thought and was apparently oblivious to the fact that her life had dangled by a thread held by a psychotic twenty year old loser.
“Crazy bitch!” he screamed from the confines of his pimp mobile. He navigated the boat of a car into a vacant spot in front of the Kwik Trip, turned the car off and took a moment to collect himself. If I’m going to pull this off, I’ve got to be calm, cool and collected. Like that dude from that movie “Natural Born Killers” the way he walks into that diner in New Mexico with his girl. That’s the coolest. Man, he knows how to get it done. Now I gotta take a deep breath and get this done. He filled his lungs with pine scented air freshener, exhaled long and slow and pulled the door handle. As he stepped into the parking lot he stowed the Berreta into the front of his pants and pulled his Iron Maiden t-shirt over the top. He slammed the door and stared up at the lit Kwik Trip sign and paused. His spiked blonde hair held it’s own against the stiff March winds. Atop his slight frame was a head that seemed two sizes too big and round like a beach ball. His legs spanned the distance from waist to ground like toothpicks. His blue jeans, faded and filled with holes appeared 10 sizes too big and clung to his hips with the help of a clothesline that bunched his pants into the 9mm Beretta pistol held in place with an enormous clothespin scribbled with magic marker.
Morris let his gaze fall down to the “We’re Open” sign on the front door and walked confidently up to the door. If he could pull this off his status in the Dribbling Gringos was assured. He had already lined up an appointment for tomorrow night at the local tattoo parlor for his bumble bee under his right eye, the signal to the world that he had completed his initiation and was now a full fledged DG. He extended his hand and pulled the door open. Walking through the door way, he quickly surveyed the store. The clerk, an old man and an inconspicuous woman were the only folks in the store and they were all at the front counter. These are the people that will witness the brilliance of Morris Crenshaw.
Walking the 10 feet up to the counter, he reached into his pants to pull the gun. But rather than retrieving it his hand relieved the pressure of the safety pin holding the gun against his belly and sent it crashing through his spacious pant leg and to the tile floor below followed closely by his trousers. He picked the weapon up and, embarrassed, waddled to the counter where he quickly raised it to Bobby’s head while trying to keep his Scooby Doo boxers hidden with his free hand.
“OK, everyone on the floor or the faggot gets it.” Morris screamed, but listening to himself he didn’t have the confidence in his voice that he did when practicing in front of the mirror the last couple of nights. And his voice cracked. Dammit, I’m 23 years old! My voice shouldn’t crack anymore. “You!” he said poking Bobby’s head with the gun. “You! Gimme everything outa the register. Now! Or I’ll put a hole in your head that shouldn’t be there.” Dammit, where did that come from?! Definitely not as easy as in front of the mirror.
Just then that lady that he nearly hit on the way into the parking lot barged in the front door, face red, screaming at the top of her lungs, spit flying everywhere. Once again, completely oblivious to everything going on around her.“Bobby Drugan, I’m not gonna just sit back and take this. I’m reporting you to your manager but not before I give you a piece of mind.” Her momentum brought her right up to Morris, who’s hand was still clutching the gun which was still resting against the temple of Bobby whose expression was somewhere between dead man walking and little-boy-with-hand-in-cookie-jar.
“Crazy bitch!” he screamed from the confines of his pimp mobile. He navigated the boat of a car into a vacant spot in front of the Kwik Trip, turned the car off and took a moment to collect himself. If I’m going to pull this off, I’ve got to be calm, cool and collected. Like that dude from that movie “Natural Born Killers” the way he walks into that diner in New Mexico with his girl. That’s the coolest. Man, he knows how to get it done. Now I gotta take a deep breath and get this done. He filled his lungs with pine scented air freshener, exhaled long and slow and pulled the door handle. As he stepped into the parking lot he stowed the Berreta into the front of his pants and pulled his Iron Maiden t-shirt over the top. He slammed the door and stared up at the lit Kwik Trip sign and paused. His spiked blonde hair held it’s own against the stiff March winds. Atop his slight frame was a head that seemed two sizes too big and round like a beach ball. His legs spanned the distance from waist to ground like toothpicks. His blue jeans, faded and filled with holes appeared 10 sizes too big and clung to his hips with the help of a clothesline that bunched his pants into the 9mm Beretta pistol held in place with an enormous clothespin scribbled with magic marker.
Morris let his gaze fall down to the “We’re Open” sign on the front door and walked confidently up to the door. If he could pull this off his status in the Dribbling Gringos was assured. He had already lined up an appointment for tomorrow night at the local tattoo parlor for his bumble bee under his right eye, the signal to the world that he had completed his initiation and was now a full fledged DG. He extended his hand and pulled the door open. Walking through the door way, he quickly surveyed the store. The clerk, an old man and an inconspicuous woman were the only folks in the store and they were all at the front counter. These are the people that will witness the brilliance of Morris Crenshaw.
Walking the 10 feet up to the counter, he reached into his pants to pull the gun. But rather than retrieving it his hand relieved the pressure of the safety pin holding the gun against his belly and sent it crashing through his spacious pant leg and to the tile floor below followed closely by his trousers. He picked the weapon up and, embarrassed, waddled to the counter where he quickly raised it to Bobby’s head while trying to keep his Scooby Doo boxers hidden with his free hand.
“OK, everyone on the floor or the faggot gets it.” Morris screamed, but listening to himself he didn’t have the confidence in his voice that he did when practicing in front of the mirror the last couple of nights. And his voice cracked. Dammit, I’m 23 years old! My voice shouldn’t crack anymore. “You!” he said poking Bobby’s head with the gun. “You! Gimme everything outa the register. Now! Or I’ll put a hole in your head that shouldn’t be there.” Dammit, where did that come from?! Definitely not as easy as in front of the mirror.
Just then that lady that he nearly hit on the way into the parking lot barged in the front door, face red, screaming at the top of her lungs, spit flying everywhere. Once again, completely oblivious to everything going on around her.“Bobby Drugan, I’m not gonna just sit back and take this. I’m reporting you to your manager but not before I give you a piece of mind.” Her momentum brought her right up to Morris, who’s hand was still clutching the gun which was still resting against the temple of Bobby whose expression was somewhere between dead man walking and little-boy-with-hand-in-cookie-jar.
posted by AHaynes at 8:10 PM
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