Spyder
By David Fingerman
The wind felt good blowing through the car, and it certainly needed to be aired out. I felt properly buzzed and up ahead I saw the white beacon that I called my savior. I cursed while pulling into the White Castle parking lot. I’d made it just in time to be beat out by the bar-closing crowd. And just to rub my face in it, the road construction crew from across the street decided to take their dinner break just before I got there, too. That’s what I hate about OT; if I’d got off at my regular time, I wouldn’t have had to stand in line. Fortunately a group of drunks decided to chat before entering and I snuck past them putting myself sixth person deep. The bad news; it looked like a retard behind the counter slowing things down even worse. Excuse me – “brain-challenged.” I’m working on my p.c.
A small tussle broke out involving a few people ahead of me. Some babe in a sexy red dress tried to butt in line ahead of one of the road crew guys. I didn’t know why the construction guy made such a big deal. The bitch could’ve cut in front of me – not a problem. It would’ve given me something to look at.
Whoa! I understood.
Her scarf came off from around her neck and there bobbed an Adam’s apple that bulged like a mouse being swallowed by a snake. Damn, not only did he have the nicest legs in the place, but he knew how to wear heels.
The pushing turned into a full-fledged fight. I reached into my pocket and grabbed my blade just in case the rest of the construction boys wanted to have some fun and expand the violence. It turned out to be a false jazz. The work boys were more concerned with placing their order. One of the dudes actually helped push the two of them out the door. All right. Advance forward two places.
The retard (sorry, I gotta call ‘em as I see ‘em) started to panic.
“Somebody’s got to do something. Somebody do something!” he cried.
“Five double cheese and two large fries and a coke!” First-in-Line, shouted back.
A bang rattled the plate glass window and everybody jumped. With his face plastered against the glass, the transvestite wasn’t pretty no more. The red dress had been torn from his shoulders, the wig lay somewhere in the parking lot, and blood flowed from a broken nose and other cuts on his face. Red smeared across the pane as his face slowly slid out of view.
“And hold the ketchup,” the guy finished.
Yup, steel-toed workboots will win over heels ninety-nine percent of the time.
I ate in the car while a cop went around asking questions. By the time he got to me, he seemed to have lost interest. That suited me just fine. I didn’t have anything to tell him anyway.