Eric Dimbleby - White Out

“Yep. Man in a bar, he came at me with a knife. I was minding my own business but I took a bet against him that night, that I could whoop him in a game of pool. He lost pretty bad. I took my winnings and he was mighty gracious about it, but I guess he got to stewin’ a bit, cause out of nowhere, he comes at me with the biggest dang knife I ever did see.”

“Jesus.”

“Fuckin’ aye,” I say, suddenly realizing that I’ve slipped from my Precious Gentleman routine. A bit early for that, but he’s flapping in the boozy wind anyhow. He’s losing his shit.

“Did you go to jail?”

“For a spell, just ‘cause I couldn’t make bail. But the bartender said it was self-defense. That was true, though. I was only protecting myself,” I say. None of this is true, but you probably already figured that out, didn’t you? You’re awful smart, ain’t ya’?

“I can’t imagine.”

I get real serious and my jaw gets all tight, flexing hard as hell, and leaning in closer to him as I pour another shot. We’re gonna need another bottle soon. “Listen to me,” I say to him, my voice dropping low, then lower still. “When you gotta do it, you’ll do it without thinking. So you say you can’t imagine, but it’ll happen when you least expect it. Somebody will come at you, and you’ll snap into action.”

He is scared shitless, looking into my eyes, thinking about what I’ve dug up inside him, hoping to summon that kinda courage that I’m jawwin’ about. He don’t got it, cause he’s a spineless jellyfish. He wouldn’t even have the balls to buy what I got inside me— all this devilin’ fire to take what’s mine-mine-mine —even if they sold it at the department store. He don’t stand a chance, not in this world.

I feel like I’m doing him a favor, ain’t that strange?

I pull out my knife, the one Skippy stuck me with. “ This is the knife I used on that guy when he came rompin’ at me. My friend Bobby gave it to me for my birthday the day before. Ain’t that lucky on me?” I lie to him again. I’m sure that he’s hearing my real voice now, not that dog-and-pony show that I’m used to puttin’ on with strangers.

“I don’t know if I can do it, Edgar. I’m not like you,” he says, belching between words, and I can’t but help feeling kind of offended. “I can’t kill.”

His head lolls to the side like I almost laugh when I think to myself that it’s about to roll off his neck. This fairy gets drunker than an anorexic teenage girl. Too fuckin’ easy.

“You’ll have to. It’s gonna happen real soon, you best believe me. And you’ll have to defend your family.” Does he even hear what I’m saying? He’s got a thick skull, this one. Thick and drunk.

“This is hell,” says Chrissy The Sissy, looking at the fire like it did something bad to him. What a drama queen. I don’t feel so bad about what I gotta do. “This whole world is turning into a living hell.”

“You’re not listening to me, Christian,” I say, and he turns to look at me again. I ain’t givin’ his ass any more shots. I need to save the rest of this fancy-boy booze for myself now.

“I don’t follow,” he starts to say, but he slurs a bit so it’s hard to make out what he’s saying. Who the hell gets drunk this fast? Jesus H. Christ, he should be ashamed of himself.

“I’m saying that it’s gonna happen real soon,” I say, and I watch as his eyes shift and he’s looking down at my knife, which I got pressing up against his throat as quick as grease lightnin’. Suddenly, the dumb shit gets what I been saying to him. He’s catching on.

“Please,” he says, tears welling in his eyes, “please don’t.”

“This is it, Chris. This is that moment I was just talkin’ about. So what you gonna do? Your boy’s sleepin’ upstairs. Crazy feller down here, got a knife to your throat. What you gonna do, poppa?”

“I—,” he starts to say, but he’s sobbing now. It makes my eyes hurt to see a man like this, all pathetic and squishy like a piece of gum on a hot sidewalk. Fuckin’ disgrace.

“Whatcha gonna do? Defend your home? Defend your supplies? Defend your family? What you gonna do?”

I’m a man that wears cowboy boots, lest you forgot.

Chrissy boy closes his eyes, and I set to doin’ what I do best.

He doesn’t even put up his hands, doesn’t make a fight, doesn’t even make a sound. He always wanted to be a cowboy, just like me. Thought he could be a stallion , but here I am, layin’ it out in front of him, asking him what he’ll do to take what’s his and he’s got no spine. It musta fell out his asshole when he was born.

If I had asked, I think he might have handed me his soul, wrapped up nice with a bow.

He’s pretty wasted, so he doesn’t really feel the things I do to him. He doesn’t feel the hatred that I drive into him. Lucky for him. I work away at him for a good while, sort of enjoying myself as I cut deeper and deeper into them hard neck muscles, and I can’t help thinking about the kid in bed upstairs. And his pretty Mommy ( I swear I can see a nipple in that family photo! ). I pause in my work, wanderin’ over to the bathroom, stopping to kiss Mommy on the lips, wondering what she looks like when she wakes up in the morning. Wondering what she sounds like when she moans. Wondering how I got to be such a lucky man—a family man, really.

Look at me Jesus. Look at me. For fuck’s sake, I’m proud of myself. Can’t remember ever feelin’ so much dang pride—not from pussy, not from booze, not from killin’, not from anything.

I’m a family man now.

Before I tuck myself away to sleep for the night, I leave my boots by the foot of Paulie’s bed. He’s all tucked away like a little fuckin’ mummy, so I don’t bother none with wakin’ him. I got me more important things to do tonight.

The kid’s gonna be surprised as all shit when he wakes up, like it’s Christmas morn’ or something like that. I don’t need them boots no longer. No need to wander. Family men gotta take care of their kids and stick close by the roost. Give them what they call family air-loons . My boy gon’ remember me. He gonna remember his pop as a good man. A caring man. A man that wouldn’t take no shit from anybody.

Wish my pop had left me some boots. All he left behind when he snuck out (fuckin’ shit heel, that’s what he was) on me was a bad attitude and a tiny dick. Self-zing. But not really. I’m just playing with ya’, it’s plenty good sized. My new old lady is gon’ love it when I show it to her. Oh boy oh boy this is what bein’ a family man is all about. Getting’ love and givin’ it back.

Talk about settlin’ in and settling’ up… I’m one hundred percent family man and it feels damn fine, yessirreebob .

The keys.

Of all the bone-headed moves she could have pulled…Annie had forgotten the keys.

It had taken nearly twenty minutes to wade through forty yards worth of snow banks, feeling a silent, icy death clenching at her lower half. When she finally managed to toss her body’s weight on to the handlebars of the snowmobile, she nearly cried in happiness, wiping away as much snow as she could, her breathing slower from the raspy wheeze that had overtaken her.

Her initial fear was that the vehicle would be ruined by the weather, but at the same time, she was confident that they were designed specifically for such conditions. The Midget Man (not to mention his band of perverts) returned to The Purple Cat late the evening before, but even still the snow had accumulated more than three additional feet, nearly covering the snowmobile completely, with bits and pieces barely visible in the drifts.