Todd Robinson - THUGLIT Issue One

“Why? What’s wrong?” Scrote asked, watching the wasted beer drain onto the ground.

“Maybe you were right about bad luck,” Violence said, “I can’t win the lottery.”

“What’re you talking about? You just did.”

“It’s gambling. It’s a violation of my parole. Any kind of gambling. If I try to get my money, not only won’t they give it to me, they’ll throw me back inside.”

“The lottery ain’t gambling. It’s legal and shit. The government runs it, and the government can’t do anything illegal. They make the laws.”

“They make the rules, too.” Violence lit a fresh cigarette off his old one, laughed to himself, then grabbed the front of Scrote’s shirt. “But nothing says you can’t gamble.”

“Sure. I gamble all the time. Blackjack, Pai Gow. Don’t understand craps though.”

“You can mail the ticket in, get the money. I’ll give you a commission. Say…ten percent. One grand. Just to use your name and get the cash.”

“A grand? Sure.”

Violence pulled the ticket out of his pocket, looking at the matching numbers for the fiftieth time. He handed it to Scrote. “Don’t lose it. And don’t even think about trying to run off with that money.”

Scrote looked hurt. “I wouldn’t never do that.”

“Because I would fucking kill you. Money makes people stupid sometimes.”

“We’re friends. Money ain’t worth more than that. It won’t make me stupid.”

“Naw, you already are.”

Violence laughed and Scrote followed his lead. Violence cracked a fresh beer and held it to the air. “To good luck.”

Still amped after the fight in the strip club, Violence cruises Indio, eyes out for Scrote or his truck. After an hour and out of ideas, he heads home. He’s still angry, but it’s the kind of angry that soothes like a blanket on a cold day. It sharpens his mind, focuses his revenge, and strengthens his resolve. He knows he isn’t going to stop until he finds Scrote and punishes him.

Turning down his street, his headlights flash off the glitter-blue of Scrote’s truck at the end of the block. Parked right in front of his house.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned.”

Violence floors it, jumps the curb, and slides his truck across his own lawn. It’s just dirt and scattered weeds, so there’s no grass to destroy. Scrote stands up from the front step, eyes wide.

Violence jumps out of his truck, twenty-inch, six-D-Cell Maglite in hand.

Scrote holds up his hands. “Wait. I know you’re pissed. I can explain.”

But before Scrote can get out another word, Violence swings the flashlight, hitting him in the neck. Scrote falls, gasping for breath and clutching at his neck. The fresh wound immediately turns a deep red-purple.

Violence doesn’t let up. He moves to Scrote’s pelvis and legs, pounding the flashlight down onto his limbs. Skin and muscle only act as minimal padding, the contact sounding like metal on bone. Scrote’s attempts at screams come out as wheezing gasps, painful and sickly.

After one particularly hard blow, the head of the flashlight breaks off and the batteries fly from the long tube.

Violence steps back, breathing hard from the exertion. He puts one hand on a knee, shaky. When Scrote reaches out to him, he knocks the hand away and stomps on it with his boot, snapping the fingers.

Violence yells through spit and anger. His eyes tear up. “How long we been friends? How long? And you shit on our good times for money? For ten fucking grand? One thousand of which was yours. So you fucked me for nine grand, really. That’s your price, you cheap son of a bitch?”

Scrote tries to talk, but only bloody bubbles froth from his mouth.

Violence continues, “Money is money. I get that. But shit, if you would’ve said, ‘I need the money for an operation’ or some shit, I would’ve given it to you. I would’ve given you all of it and whatever else I had. It’s money. That’s all. Friends is more important than money, dumbass. You said that shit yourself.”

“Didn’t steal nothin’, Violence,” Scrote finally gets out.

“Then hand over my dough.”

Scrote shakes his head.

“Right. What happened? You lose it at the casino? Same difference. You been ducking me. You ain’t got the money. That’s stealing in anyone’s book.”

“Bad luck. It was just bad luck,” Scrote says.

“Fuck you.”

“They took it.”

“Don’t tell me it got stole. Don’t bullshit me. You do that and you’re going to get really hurt.”

Scrote tries to reach into his pocket, but his broken fingers only flop against his shirt pocket. He gives up, looking at Violence. “In there.”

Violence leans down and reaches in Scrote’s pocket, pulling out an envelope. It’s from the State Lottery Board. He pulls out the letter inside. He mumble-reads through the letter, “Dear Mr. Henning. Due to overdue child support. Lottery winnings will be issued to…Oh, hell no.”

Scrote nods his head, and then rests it on the concrete. “My neck feels really weird. Like it hurts, but it doesn’t.”

“Those fucks. Why didn’t you say something? What kind of asshole don’t pay child support?”

“Never had the money. Didn’t know they’d know. Didn’t think of it.”

“If the state took the cash, why’d you duck me? Why didn’t you call and tell me? Why’d you avoid me? You must’ve known I’d think you took it.”

“When you get mad, you get scary. I thought if I let some time pass, you’d calm down.”

“I calmed down all right.”

“I was embarrassed. That’s why I came over. To tell you. To your face. Show you the letter. Say I’m sorry.”

Violence shakes his head. He looks down at his friend. The swelling of Scrote’s leg is visible even under his jeans. And his neck is every color it shouldn’t be. More than a bruise, maybe a broken blood vessel or something. It looks like he just swallowed a water balloon that got caught on the way down.

Violence gets his arms underneath Scrote and lifts him up. Scrote groans, red drool trailing to the ground.

“Maybe that nurse you like will be working the emergency room tonight,” Violence says.

“Sheila.”

“She the one with the big tits?”

“You know me.”

Violence sets Scrote in the passenger seat of his truck and buckles him in. He jumps into the driver’s side and starts the engine.

“It’s all my fault,” Scrote says, “should’ve never tried our luck knowing it was bad.”

“Shut up and bleed quieter,” Violence says. “You owe me ten grand. You know that, right?”

“Nine grand. A thousand was mine, remember?”

“Don’t be an idiot. You can’t get a commission on money I never got.”

Violence backs his truck onto the road. Scrote yells when the truck bounces off the curb. They head east toward the hospital.

“You want I should stop by FastTrip and grab a six and some Fritos on the way to the hospital?”

“May as well. The emergency room gets busy on Saturday night.”

JORDAN HARPERwas born and educated in Missouri. He has worked as a music critic and journalist, and is currently a writer for The Mentalist on CBS. His nonfiction has appeared in The Village Voice and other papers. His fiction has appeared in Out of the Gutter and Crime Factory , but Thuglit is his home.

JASON DUKEwas a Sergeant in the U.S. Army for six years. He was deployed 15 months to Iraq from 07-09. Now he lives and writes full-time in Phoenix, Arizona. His fiction has appeared in Plots With Guns , Thuglit , Spinetingler Magazine , Crimewav.com , Crimefactory , Needle Magazine , Yellow Mama , Darkest Before the Dawn , and A Twist of Noir , among others. He also has stories in the e-anthologies D*CKED and Pulp Ink which are available on amazon.com.