Jeff Jacobson - Wormfood

“What the hell happened to you?” Fat Ernst asked.

“Broke my arm!” Bert said proudly, brandishing his cast.

“No shit? Figured it was your leg.”

“Aw, don’t mind him,” Junior said, making himself at home at the bar. “He was bitchin’ and moanin’ all day, so we swung by the vet’s, and he set that sucker real good and gave Bert some horse tranquilizers.” He looked over at Bert, still leaning against the pool table. “He’s as right as rain now. Ain’t that right, Bert?”

“You goddamn got that right,” Bert said in a matter-of-fact tone. He managed to stagger toward the bar and drop onto a stool.

“You fellas fucked up my deal with Slim today,” Fat Ernst said tiredly. “He was too damn pissed for business.”

“Slim’s always pissed about something.”

Ray pulled himself to his feet and stuck his chest out. “Been meaning to talk to you boys about this morning.”

“Shut your hole, Ray,” Fat Ernst snapped. “Better yet, get the fuck out. We’re closed. You too, Heck. Out.”

Ray turned to the bar. “Hell, Ernst, it ain’t even eleven yet. I got another three hours left on duty. And I’m supposed to interrogate these boys.”

“Don’t make me ask you twice.”

Ray put on his hat and stood up. He tossed down another shot of Wild Turkey and readjusted his belt and cowboy hat. “Fine. Fine. I’ll talk to you fellas later. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

“Shit, Ray, this morning, that wasn’t our fault. Slim knows it. Talk to dipshit here,” he said, and pointed at me. “And if Slim’s still pissed off, you tell him he can kiss my sweet hairy ass.”

Ray started to say something else, but Fat Ernst barked, “Pay up and get out. Now. And take Heck with you. Looks like he’s passed out again.”

“C’mon Heck. Let’s go home,” Ray grumbled. “Don’t see why I always have to be the babysitter.”

Heck whimpered something about his wife as Deputy Ray half carried, half dragged the old man toward the open door. Fat Ernst shouted after them, “And close that fucking door. Every goddamn mosquito in the county is just waltzing right in.”

“You want us out too?” Junior asked.

Fat Ernst rubbed his eyes with his fists, making him look oddly childlike. A fat three-year-old with a crew cut. “Not yet. I got a little job for you.” He sighed. “But since the rocket scientist here went and broke his arm, it looks like you’re gonna need a little help.”

Fat Ernst turned and stared at me. “Considering how you stepped into that pile of shit this morning, you just volunteered to help these fellas out. They’re gonna run a little errand for me, and you’re gonna go along for the ride. Maybe I’ll even throw in a little extra cash. Fair enough?”

“Well … depends,” I said, surprising myself.

Fat Ernst’s thick features scrunched up together as if the fat rolls were trying to touch each other in the middle of his face. He turned to Bert and Junior and said, “You fellas sit tight. Got me a little attitude adjustment to make on an employee. Be right back.”

He waddled down the length of the bar with surprising speed and grace, then grabbed me just above my elbow and nearly pulled me off my feet, shoving me through the swinging doors. I stumbled against the stove, sharp fear sparking and flaring in the pit of my stomach.

His thick, stubby thumb and fingers dug into the flesh on either side of my jaw, forcing my head up until I was looking directly into his big face. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he just stared at me and I realized that this was the first time I had ever met Fat Ernst’s eyes. They were sunk deep into his pockmarked cheeks like two olives in a bowl of cottage cheese that had been left out too long.

Fat Ernst swiveled his blunt head to the side and spat on the stove, then turned up the heat with his free hand. “Seems to me, boy, we got ourselves a little problem here. You been forgetting your place in the food chain.” The spit started to sizzle and dance on the griddle.

My eyes never left the boiling spit. Thick grease began to pop on the black iron.

“I still own that shithole trailer and the land. So unless you and that old bitch want to find a new place to live, you best straighten up and fly right.” He grabbed my left wrist and jerked my hand out over the griddle.

“When I say jump, you jump,” he whispered into my right ear. “No questions. No back talk. No nothing. You got that?”

He forced my hand closer to the black iron. The heat started to sear my palm, just five inches over the stove. Liquid pain curled around my hand and raced up my arm. I sucked in a ragged breath.

“You hearing me, you little shit?” Fat Ernst hissed into my ear.

I tried to nod.

“So you’re gonna help the fellas out tonight, that’s all there is to it. You understand what I’m saying here?”

I kept nodding, unable to look away from what was left of the sizzling spit.

And suddenly, as quickly as he had grabbed me, he released my wrist and neck at the same time. I cringed back against the sink.

Fat Ernst took out a fresh cigar, bit the end off, and swallowed it. He shifted his center of gravity, rolling back on his heels. “Hell, son, I’m just trying to look out for your best interests. I know that you don’t have a father around anymore to teach you things. I’m just trying to help you here. Life ain’t a bunch of goddamn roses. You gotta work for things, get in there, spread a little manure around. Life don’t just step up and spread her legs for you. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I … I think so.” I didn’t have a goddamn clue what the hell he was talking about.

“You’re too damn soft, boy. Too much of a pansy. Life is gonna kick your ass and stomp you into the dirt unless you get yourself a little backbone.”

I nodded and let my gaze fall to the floor.

“You look at me when I’m talking.” I jerked my head back up and stared at his face. But I couldn’t look into his eyes. I focused on his squat nose instead.

He continued. “Like I said, I figure since you ain’t got a father around, I guess it’s my place to step in and help you out a little. Give to the world and the world gives back, you know? Now …” He paused, pulling the unlit cigar out of his mouth and sucking the flecks of tobacco out of his teeth. “You ain’t afraid of a little hard work, are you?”

I shook my head, still watching his nose.

He nodded, “Good, good. You’re gonna go help these boys out tonight. You do a good job and don’t bitch and whine too much and give ’em too much trouble, I’ll have maybe, something like twenty bucks waiting for you tomorrow.”

I got brave for a moment and spoke up. “What do I have to do?”

Fat Ernst’s eyes folded into slits and I could tell he didn’t like the question. “It’s a job, that’s all. If I want any shit out of you, I’ll kick it. Now get this stove cleaned up and finish those glasses in the sink.” He turned and walked back through the swinging door.

As it swung back, I took two quick steps and pressed my right cheek to the door, watching through the crack.

Junior asked, “What do we need him for?”

Fat Ernst lowered his voice. “Remember back, ’bout two years ago? I ran out of meat?”

Bert shook his head.

Junior said, “Yeah. You want us to do the same thing?”

Fat Ernst nodded.

Junior asked, “Same place?”

“Yep. Two fresh ones today.”

“So why do we need the kid?”

“Dickhead here’s got a broken arm. You gonna handle them things by yourself?”

Junior thought for a moment, then nodded.

Fat Ernst turned back toward the kitchen and shouted, “Boy! Time to go.”