Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

– Fugging poozie! Fugging pendejo, mudderfugger!

The latch pops and the jamb is peeled from the frame and the door splinters open as Timo slams Paul into it again and they both fall into the hallway.

Paul hits the floor hard, Timo landing on top of him. The wind is smashed from his lungs and he gasps.

Timo is crawling on top of him, trying to pin his arms to the floor with his knees.

– Poozies, fugging up ourd shid! Fugged up all ourd shid!

Paul brings his arms up and crosses them over his face. Timo grabs his wrists and twists and brings them to the floor and gets his knees planted on his elbows and pops a fist into Paul’s neck.

– Fug you ub, fugger!

Paul twists, tries to squirm loose, tries to open his lungs, but Timo is planted on his chest, unmoving.

Timo cocks his fist.

– See howd you lide a broden nodez, poozy!

The empty half gallon brandy bottle smashes against the back of Timo’s head and he goes limp, flopping forward, blood dripping from his open nostril onto Paul’s shirt.

– Leave my son alone!

His dad still has a grip on the bottle’s handle, a jagged rim of glass attached to it.

– Get off my son!

Shrieking, kicking Timo.

Paul pulls himself from under Timo’s weight, crawling down the hall, back toward the livingroom, toward the front door.

Behind him, his dad throws the handle at Timo and kicks his inert body.

– He’s my son! You can’t have him! He’s my son! He’s mine!

Paul stops, mouth stretched, trying to find some air.

– Paul? Paul? Are you OK, son? Did he hurt you?

He tries to stand up. Can’t. Crawls again.

His dad is coming down the hall.

– It’s OK now, Paul, you don’t have to run, I’m here, it’s OK. You’re safe.

His lungs start to work again, he breathes, puts his hand on the wall, starts to get his feet under him.

– Don’t get up, son. It’s OK, I’ve got you.

He’s almost up. Get up and get out, that’s all he has to do.

He dad puts his hand on his back.

The spike drives up from under his lip. Up, scraping the roots of his teeth, through his nose and his sinuses, splits the space between his eyes, buries itself in his brain.

– I’m here now.

Paul throws up. Falls back to his knees. Makes a noise that hurts the inside of his head. Pants. Curls up in a ball.

– I got you, son. I got you.

His dad sits on the floor, strokes his back.

– Just us here, no one to hurt you. Just you and me, son.

He lifts Paul’s head and scoots so it rests on his lap.

– There you are, there you are. Look at you. Look at you. Who could hurt you like that? Who would do that? Look at you. You’re just a little boy. Who could hurt you like that?

He wipes at the tears on his son’s face.

– Here we are. Just like we used to be, huh? Here we are. Close again, close again.

He rubs his son’s chest.

– Here we are.

Paul makes a sound, knowing it will hurt.

– No, Daddy.

What the hell is Geezer’s car doing here?

Jeff takes the Harley past the house, easy on the throttle so he doesn’t rattle any windows.

Looks just like it did last night. Streetlamp’s still dark from that pellet George put through it. Dart’s still in the driveway. Only real difference is a big one. Geezer’s car at the damn curb.

He turns the corner and cruises around the block.

Thinking.

Paul wanting to talk to him on the side about some kind of drug deal. Geezer getting uptight when he saw the jewelry the guys had. Getting even more uptight when Jeff mentioned there might be a side deal to be done. Geezer getting pissed about Amy, thinking she’s stepped into his crank market. Setting up a soft gig for the guys. A cherry house waiting to be hit. Waiting to be hit because his go to gang of house breakers, the Arroyos, just took a heavy bust. Paper said it was a drug bust.

Crank lab.

– Awww shiiiiiiiiit, maaaaaan!

Jeff’s not home.

Bob kicks through the weeds at the back of the trailer, squeezing past the rusted fenders, old tires, and cases of empty beer bottles Jeff’s yet to redeem. He stands on a rain warped industrial cable spool and looks through the window into the livingroom. Nothing but mess. He hops down and goes back to the front and bangs on the door again. Still no answer.

Almost five in the AM and Jeff Loller not at home. Doesn’t mean anything. Could be with a chick somewhere. Could be finishing up a graveyard shift at whatever crap job he’s holding down these days.

He looks at the cars in front of the porch.

Man’s still got the same taste in cars. Cheap.

He looks around the trailer park, doesn’t see any early rising retirees peeking from their kitchen windows. He jiggles the door, feels the give it has within the frame. Slam his shoulder into it and the lock will pop right open.

Breaking and entering.

That alone could be enough to bring him a world of shit.

He turns and walks off the porch and gets in his truck.

Too early for the Rodeo to be open, but someone should be there mopping up. Wouldn’t be the first time Jeff slept on the pool table.

He drives out of the park, heading downtown.

– Where you think your friend is?

– I don’t know.

– I know that. I know that, sitting there on the floor, you don’t know where he is. I’m asking where you think he is. Because I don’t expect you to be psychic, a mind reader, right?

George keeps his eyes on the carpet, locked on the spot between his feet.

– I don’t know. Getting your stuff.

– Better be.

– Can I see my brother?

– No.

George looks up. No one’s moving much.

Geezer just sits on the couch sweating and wiping and drinking glasses of water and bitching about how hot the house is.

Fernando watches his unconscious brother and fetches the water for Geezer, going back and forth from the kitchen.

Hector’s sitting there. Just sitting and staring at Ramon and wincing when he swallows his own blood.

Ramon breathes and that’s about it.

On TV, when they say someone’s in shock, they usually sit there with their eyes open and mumble shit about how they can’t believe what happened or how it wasn’t their fault or some shit. But this is probably what it’s really like. Just sitting there all pale and bleeding and sweating and shivering.

Kinda like how Andy looked. But that was hours ago.

– What are you staring at?

George realizes he’s staring at Geezer. He looks back at the carpet.

– Nothing.

– Uh huh.

They sit there.

– Hey. George.

– Yeah?

– Amy ever tell you about the time I went over there?

– Huh?

– The cunt who caused all this trouble, she ever tell you what I told her? When she was fucking up your life by getting you to steal my meth, she ever tell you what you were getting into?

George looks up again.

– Amy?

– Kid’s a genius. Yeah, her. She ever?

– She? Tell us what?

– I take it back, kid’s a retard.

– She didn’t. I haven’t. I don’t even talk to my aunt anymore.

Geezer looks at his watch.

He looks back at the kid.

– What?

– I don’t talk to my aunt.

– What?

– We had a fight. I don’t talk to her.

Geezer shifts so he can scratch his butt.

– What was that, kid? George? What was that?

– Said I don’t talk to my aunt. We had a fight.