Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

The fool says nothing. It’s the first right thing he’s done since the bimbo opened the door. But it’s too little too late.

“Answer me, or I swear to God, I will—”

“She’s worth looking at,” the fool says, biting hard on the hook, believing incorrectly that insulting the woman would be worse than admiring her body, which is now bouncing like an inflatable fun house full of sugar-doped kids. She’s getting off on this, smiling broadly, nearly clapping.

The cop does nothing. The bar man sighs.

The philistine, lost in anger, has nothing more to say. He lifts the fool by his expensive, salmon-colored shirt, cocks back his fist, and grins. The fight—if you can call it that—will be over in one punch.

Except, it won’t be.

The philistine’s fist never reaches the fool’s face. It finds my hand instead. Without fully realizing it, I’ve crossed the room. Part of me feels confused, like I’m not sure how my proximity to the philistine changed, but the rest of me understands that everything about this situation is wrong. And that is something I cannot abide.

The punch stings my hand, but the pain only serves to focus me. And in that moment of clarity, I realize I’ve picked up a pool stick, which I swing with gusto. I’m no fool. Nor do I believe in a fair fight.

The pool stick breaks over the man’s broad back, pitching him forward with an embarrassingly loud, high-pitched shout. Despite the man’s penchant for drama on the scale of an injury-faking soccer player, he’s far from out of the fight. I have about a second before he swings one of his meaty arms at me. He’ll miss, but the time it takes me to dodge the blow will allow him to recover, and then this could drag on. None of that happens, of course. The cue ball is now in my right hand. I drive it into the man’s forehead. He crumples to the floor, upturning the fool’s table as he descends. Beer and peanuts mix with the blood flowing from his forehead.

The fool looks up at me with the same wide-eyed admiration he’d given the bimbo, who, I might add, is no longer bouncing or giggling. Her barbarian king has been dethroned by a transient with a two-week beard, messy hair, and a worn leather jacket.

“Th-thank you,” the fool says.

I respond to his gratitude by slapping him hard across the face. The resounding clap of his clean-shaven skin sounds like a snapping carrot. I lean in close while the man rubs his reddening cheek, tears in his eyes. “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.”

The man’s brow furrows. “Mark Twain?”

I have no idea whom I’m quoting, but I don’t let him know that. I stand up and turn away.

The police officer has spun around in his chair, watching the scene with indifference. I head back to my table, chug what’s left of my beer, and walk toward the bar with my empty glass.

I stop in front of the woman, a condescending eyebrow lifted. My eyes tell her that it is she who is ultimately responsible for this mess. She brought the trap. She set the bait. Without her, the philistine would be home watching television. The fool would be finishing his drink and on his way. And I… well, I’m not sure what I’d be doing beyond sitting alone at a table.

She gets the message, loud and clear, and responds with vehemence, reading from the same script the philistine had been reciting since high school. “Fuck you, pri—”

Her words are silenced by the sound of breaking glass. She falls to the floor, wrapped around her stool, as unconscious as her boyfriend, or whatever he is. As I put the remnants of my beer stein on the bar, the officer takes action. Apparently, striking a woman is an actionable offense, whereas assaulting a philistine or fool is acceptable behavior.

Before the gun is fully raised, I clasp my hand atop it, twist, and free it from the officer’s grasp. He’s had a few drinks but is still pretty quick. Just not quick enough. He tries to lift his foot, going for the weapon on his ankle, but I’ve already stepped on his shoe.

I turn the gun around on him.

He stops moving but stands his ground, hiding his fear. I respect that, but his inaction offends me. I motion to the philistine and then to the woman. “You should have stopped them.”

“I couldn’t,” the officer says.

“You had two guns.” The point can’t be argued.

“You don’t know who he is.”

“I know exactly who he is,” I say, speaking of his character rather than his name, which confuses the policeman. “You’re a shame to your profession.” I spin the gun around in my hand, prepared to coldcock the man and be on my way. But a roar interrupts.

The philistine is awake.

I turn toward the mountain of a man, his arms spread wide, reuniting with Violence, his long-lost lover. His face is covered in blood. Peanuts cling to the viscous red fluid. He looks like something I can’t quite remember.

Dodging the attack is easy enough. A quick duck and sidestep is all it takes. The man careens into the bar, but it’s not enough. I consider the weapon in my hand but decide against it. The man deserves a lesson, not execution. But a harsh lesson. I tuck the gun into my jeans as he turns around, coming at me again.

I meet his rush with a quick jab to his face. He’s stunned by the force of it, but also because he never saw it coming. As he staggers back, I sweep his legs, knocking him onto his back. Before he can recover, I drop to one knee beside him and lift his arm.

“Don’t!” the officer shouts. He’s got his small ankle revolver leveled at my chest.

“He needs to learn,” I tell him, then slam the philistine’s arm down on my leg, snapping it like a branch.

The big man screams anew, his high-pitched wail waking the unconscious woman, who begins to weep.

“Get up!” the officer shouts.

I raise my hands and obey. “You could have prevented this.”

The bartender is on the phone. No doubt with the police.

“Turn around! Hands on the wall!”

I obey.

“What’s your name?” the officer asks.

This is a tough question, mostly because I don’t know the answer. I have a name. I’m as sure of that as I am that at one point in my past, I had a mother and a father. I can’t remember them either, but the fact that I exist is biological evidence that a man and woman, at some point in the past, copulated and gave birth to a boy. I’d like to think those same people would have given me a name. “I’m Crazy.”

“You’re bat-shit crazy,” the officer says.

I look back, over my shoulder. “With a capital C .”

The officer inches closer. With his revolver pointed at my back, he reaches around my waist, fumbling for the gun I stole. “Don’t move.”

But I do. Slowly and subtly. I twist away from his reaching hand, drawing him in closer. When he’s all but hugging me, I reach back with my left hand. The bartender shouts a warning, but it’s too late. I twist the revolver away from my back and keep on twisting until the officer shouts in pain and releases the weapon. I spin around, draw the sidearm from my waist, and level both weapons at the police officer.

“Don’t kill me,” he says, hands raised.

“I don’t kill people for being incompetent,” I tell him.

Do I kill people at all? I wonder. I certainly have the ability. I’m fast, and strong, and know how to fight with brutal efficiency. I could kill him, with these guns, with my bare hands, or with a peanut from the philistine’s face. When the officer had first come into the bar, he’d waited for the tender to remove the bowl before sitting down, and then he wiped the bar down with a wet wipe. The man feared peanuts. Allergic, no doubt.