The Law of Gravity

June 12, 2016 at 6:27 pm (Cussed Dumbers)

Pop a Rotsy!

Pop a Rotsy!

What goes up, must come down, as Sir Isaac Newton discovered and Alan Parsons warbled. For every action there is a reaction, as well as the occasional consequence.

Some people have had to learn this the hard way.

Longtime cussed-dumber Carmine has always been a friend of the store, a regular who doesn’t steal and spends a lot of his disposable income on sodas and lottery tickets. We welcome him by name, and I even have his phone number in case of emergency. Or cigarette promotion.

At first, every time I saw Carmine he was with Pall. I didn’t know their names, so I called them Bernie and Ert. I thought maybe they were more than “buddies” but it made no difference. They were cool either way.

Then there was a falling out, and Pall disappeared. I asked Carmine; all he’d say was, “Dude’s a freak and an asshole, and I will kill him if he comes near me.” These were strong words for mild-mannered Carmine. Whatever Pall’s transgressions, they seemed unforgivable.

Pall would pop up on Facebook posts after being caught trying to upskirt young girls on the MAX, or from picking fights with long-haired hippie types like yours truly. I would walk three blocks around to avoid contact. Not because I’m afraid, but because he’s that unpleasant.

It was about 11 PM, and Festus poked his head into the Nightclub Store. “How’s the night?” He was working the same shift as me at the Mothership, it was his lunch. We exchanged street updates, and he bought a handful of cigars. I followed him outside as he left to smoke.

That was when I saw Pall. “Fuck that loser. I’m going inside. I hope he doesn’t try to come in.”

“Is he 86ed?” asked Festus.

“I don’t know.”

“He is now,” Festus said, grinning through a cloud of cigar smoke. “Let me handle it.”

I went inside, and almost immediately heard shouting. I saw Pall lunge at Festus, who responded with a right uppercut. A second later I heard a crack and crash, and Pall’s phone was in three pieces.

“I told you to get it out of my face,” said Festus. He pulled out his phone and called Clean and Safe.

Pall turned his attention to me. “Did you see that? That faggot broke my phone!” He was scrambling to reassemble it. “I’m going to do this in the store.”

“Um, no you’re not,” I said as I blocked the doorway. “You are 86ed from all Master P’s stores. Go away.”

I raised my forearm as he lunged at me. I resisted an open shot to his jaw. (I could have dropped him like a hot rock.) He cussed and sputtered and called me names, then raised his phone to my face and (I presume) snapped a picture. “I’ve got you now, you cocksucking freak!” He was foaming from the corners of his mouth. “As soon as I post this, they will be coming for you!”

Festus stepped up, “Tommy’s on his way.”

I looked at Pall, staring smugly at me as he turned to walk away. “You just wait.”

I asked Festus, “Got the store for a second?” He nodded and went inside.

Pall had a half-block head start. I caught up to him as he stood on the corner, rapt in the glow of his phone screen. I told him, “Don’t ever threaten me again, and stay out of ALL Master P’s stores.”

As I said this, I punctuated by bitch-slapping his phone straight down into the sidewalk. Festus got three pieces; I counted five on my slap. (No air cushion, straight-on Charles Barkley slam-dunk.) Old Pall was apoplectic; his insults and volume of corner-froth had tripled.

A bike officer had arrived. I pointed out Pall, and asked that his No Trespass Order be refreshed. A few minutes later Festus was off having lunch, and I was in a much better mood. I texted Art East, on the off chance we needed video. This led to a lot of phone humor.

“Can you hear me now?”

“Sorry, you’re breaking up…

Justice has been served.

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