The Money You Borrow and the Money You Owe (2)

We owed a gambling debt to Big Tony Flub’s.  And we weren’t going to pay it.  And Big Tony had a temper.  And a coronary condition.  We took bets on when the fat lard would keel over.  I owe Tommy $20.  I was wrong when I bet it would happen before he got back at us.

My Firebird rumbled into the parking lot at the Pink Flamingo, a local dive where we usually wasted money on buying women beer.  Tony Flub’s boys knew where we hung out so they did too.  This was only two weeks after we disappeared and trekked down to Florida.  We only had 18 days left to pay Crapper and we had absolutely $0 dollars.  But, despite being broke, we found a way to buy beers for two brunette basketball fans that we’re never going to go home with us anyways.  Tony’s boys approached the bar and ordered their our drinks.  Tommy nudged me (which they openly saw) yet I tried to act as if nothing was wrong.  The game was on and the Nets were down by six.  AT this point, the girls were way more into the game than us or the beers we provided.  As a matter of fact, the TV fastened on the top liquor shelf had a better shot of sleeping with them than me and Tommy.

So, Flub’s goons stepped over behind us and boy did they smell bad, like burnt spaghetti.  The uglier one spoke.

“Hey boys, how about a game of darts?” he said
Tommy’s tongue was pretty much good as new by now, so he answered for us.
“We’re having a beer together and talking here at the bar.  So, no thanks.”
“You sure?  We’re really not that good.”
Boy, was he a great negotiator.  I’d hate to be ready to commit suicide with him on the other end of the phone, trying to talking me out of it.

“LIke I said, we’re sitting here, drinking our beer..  Now, buzz the fuck away!”

Did I mention Tommy had a temper?  Well, his last request didn’t go over too well, but obviously these two tree trunks didn’t want to cause a scene, so they remained calm, and breathed deeply.  Maybe they were in Yoga together.

“Yeah, I heard you friend. But, we still need someone to play with,” he realized as soon as he finished talking, he had said something wrong.
“Well, there’s plenty of other people in here. Go play with them.  Or better yet, go play with yourselves!”

Yeah, Tommy wasn’t a people person.  The two oafs grabbed us by our jackets and picked us up off the bar literally.  Our beers both toppled over and spilled to the floor.  The one that had me threw me down on the pool table to our right and beat on my ribs for a second.  Tommy had snuck an elbow into the negotiator’s mouth, but it didn’t really seem to have an effect.  So, he head-butted Tommy in response, splitting his nose and draining blood from it.  My ribs felt like a log of pizza dough being beat on.  Tommy got smashed against the wall and dart board with a large elbow in his throat for decoration; he was commanded to stick out his tongue.
He responed with a prompt “Fuck You!”  So, again, he was head-butted, this time in the side of the cranium.  He looked dizzy, and his eyes were not focused on anything.  Meanwhile, my ribs kept taking a pounding, as encouragement for me not to get up and try anything.
“Stick out your tongue…now!”  That comment sounded a lot weirder being said in person than it does here.  Tommy had no choice; the brute was grinding his elbow into Tommy’s windpipe and seemed to be more like a human vice than relenting.  The other goon left me to curl into a tight ball and feel pain as he picked up a dart with a red quill and black shaft.  He closed one eye and tried to measure up his shot.  Tommy was sweating and making that weird noise people make when their tongue is out.  The bruiser aimed up his shot, with one eye closed and as he primed himself to throw, I kicked him in the back of the leg, interrupting his perfect throw.  The dart, somehow, still left his hand and landed directly into his partner’s ear, as if there was a bullseye painted on it.  It was a championship shot if I ever saw one.  Tommy squeezed away from his grip, and collect me as we made a mad dash out of that shithole bar.  On our way out, the two sports girls were leaning against their pickup, one of them puking violently like the girl from Exorcist.  That could have been my bedsheets, that is, if she’ would have had anything to do with me.

Luckily, Big Tony Flub’s didn’t know where we lived, but I’m sure he could find out.  WE neded to pack up some stuff and get the hell out of town.  And fast.

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