five n dime

by underswansea

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Five n Dime was strung out on booze, smoke and pills. It’s a mixture when you get on a roll. He pointed a handgun at his own foot.

Said, ‘That don’t belong here!’

His foot was resting on the coffee table in front of him.

Bishop had to reason with a drunk that had been up too long. Said, ‘Let it go man, it ain’t worth it.’

He went on to say, ‘Fuck that foot, it ain’t even got soul.’

Bishop thought he was being clever.

Five n Dime damn near shot his own foot regardless or in spite of his joke, but finally relented and put the gun down. He was in and out. Talking one moment nodding the next. He tried to get up. Apparently his foot was still scared stiff from being held up at gunpoint and refusing to work. Five n Dime went down on the shag.

Bishop picked the gun off the coffee table. There was some smoke left and a few pills. He gathered those up as well.

He was about to head out, then thought better and checked the fridge. Four-beer left. He grabbed one for the walk home.

Bishop took a last look at Five n Dime. He hadn’t moved, but had pissed himself. One more stain in the shag.

He would need those four beer come morning. Bishop laid his walking companion down beside Five n Dime’s hand.

The gun and pills he’d return in a few days after Five n Dime had his shit together. The smoke he’d keep considering the trouble.

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