THE TRUTH
08-22-2004, 09:11 PM
FIFTY-NINE SECONDS
53 SECONDS LEFT.
“I seen it all, I tell ya,” that old man said as he sat in his old rocking chair; the flame of the fireplace spewing in front of his face. “I was down there by the corner store, just fixin’ to get me some chickens and ale when he came in. Had a nasty look on his face, like whoever fucked with him was gon’ get it. Said some shit bout: ‘give me all yuh damn money, nigga!’ but the store clerk was one of dem minorities, definitely not a nigga. You know the ones, look Indian but they something else—Pakistani or Sri Lankan, I think. You know them fuckahz errybody be callin terrorist nowadays?”
The man sitting beside him nodded a simple nod, waiting for the old man’s story to continue.
“So anyway, it was mighty twisted, I tell ya. ‘Cause this young, baggy-pants motherfuckah had the store clerk duckin’ behind the counter and whatnot; then in comes another baggy pants motherfuckah.” The old man liked the word ‘motherfuckah’. “I’m sitting there watchin’ from behind the aisle where they got the outta date cornflakes on the opposite side from the marmalade. This second youngin’ walked with authority; and when the first one turned to see who the hell came in, wavin’ his gun all ovah the place; the second one punched him square in the face. He wasn’t scared of the gun or nothing. Jab, jab, cross—it was that simple.
“So the first boy’s nose is bleeding—the gun had fallen from his hand at that time—and the second one just kept punchin’ him. The first went to his knees, and the second one was kneein’ him and kickin him round his neck and face. It was brutal, I tell ya.”
The old man stood from the rocking chair. He peered around the room, searching for something. He would never get a chance to say what it was. The old man coughed up a rough, gurgling sound. His eyes rolled back for a split second or two and then came to rest back in their normal place. He stared directly at the men he was, just a second ago, telling his enthralling story. Then he fell forward, his face colliding hard with the wooden floor.
Davis watched the old man’s plummet as if it was a slow motion replay. Then he smiled. Just a minute earlier he offered to fix the old man a cup of tea. The elder refused to allow a guest in his house the opportunity to become the servant, but quickly resigned his opposition when he realized the younger man wouldn’t back down. What Davis prepared was a lethal concoction. When the tea raced through the old man’s throat, resting finally in his stomach, that’s when the last minute began.
Fifty-nine seconds later, on the dot, Davis marveled at the old man’s fall. And he cursed himself because he didn’t allow enough time to hear the rest of the story.
THE END
53 SECONDS LEFT.
“I seen it all, I tell ya,” that old man said as he sat in his old rocking chair; the flame of the fireplace spewing in front of his face. “I was down there by the corner store, just fixin’ to get me some chickens and ale when he came in. Had a nasty look on his face, like whoever fucked with him was gon’ get it. Said some shit bout: ‘give me all yuh damn money, nigga!’ but the store clerk was one of dem minorities, definitely not a nigga. You know the ones, look Indian but they something else—Pakistani or Sri Lankan, I think. You know them fuckahz errybody be callin terrorist nowadays?”
The man sitting beside him nodded a simple nod, waiting for the old man’s story to continue.
“So anyway, it was mighty twisted, I tell ya. ‘Cause this young, baggy-pants motherfuckah had the store clerk duckin’ behind the counter and whatnot; then in comes another baggy pants motherfuckah.” The old man liked the word ‘motherfuckah’. “I’m sitting there watchin’ from behind the aisle where they got the outta date cornflakes on the opposite side from the marmalade. This second youngin’ walked with authority; and when the first one turned to see who the hell came in, wavin’ his gun all ovah the place; the second one punched him square in the face. He wasn’t scared of the gun or nothing. Jab, jab, cross—it was that simple.
“So the first boy’s nose is bleeding—the gun had fallen from his hand at that time—and the second one just kept punchin’ him. The first went to his knees, and the second one was kneein’ him and kickin him round his neck and face. It was brutal, I tell ya.”
The old man stood from the rocking chair. He peered around the room, searching for something. He would never get a chance to say what it was. The old man coughed up a rough, gurgling sound. His eyes rolled back for a split second or two and then came to rest back in their normal place. He stared directly at the men he was, just a second ago, telling his enthralling story. Then he fell forward, his face colliding hard with the wooden floor.
Davis watched the old man’s plummet as if it was a slow motion replay. Then he smiled. Just a minute earlier he offered to fix the old man a cup of tea. The elder refused to allow a guest in his house the opportunity to become the servant, but quickly resigned his opposition when he realized the younger man wouldn’t back down. What Davis prepared was a lethal concoction. When the tea raced through the old man’s throat, resting finally in his stomach, that’s when the last minute began.
Fifty-nine seconds later, on the dot, Davis marveled at the old man’s fall. And he cursed himself because he didn’t allow enough time to hear the rest of the story.
THE END