Sunset – Part 3

If you missed Part 1, click here.

If you missed Part 2, click here.

D’angelo shook his head, took two quick steps, then checked over his shoulder – John hadn’t moved. D’angelo broke into a sprint away.

He charged two blocks, stopped for no one, then rushed up the stoop and into his apartment. D’angelo leaned back against his front door to smack it shut, then sucked in oxygen as fast as possible. Humidity was bad in California – enough to leave him drenched in sweat from the hasty dash.

D’angelo stared at the cheap wood flooring in his studio apartment for a while. He rubbed his bald head, then rocked it back and gazed up at his ceiling fan.

“God-damn!” he said to himself, then laughed.

A casual Tuesday at the bar had turned into a nightmare – first the vixen who’d taken his digits and booked it, then the nutcase who could’ve found patterns in pigeons.

D’angelo strolled over to his home computer. The next five minutes he spent listening to it hum as it booted up. Once he had it up and running, D’angelo went to work – time to find out who this Sunset chick was.

Couldn’t be that hard, a name like that is one in a million – a rare type that no man forgets. D’angelo browsed facebook, instagram, twitter – nothing.

D’angelo scoffed.

“Where you at, girl.”

He tried ‘Sun Set’. Still Nothing.

D’angelo went to the fridge, popped open a Michelob Ultra, then returned to his seat. Rolled up the blinds, raised the window, and kicked his feet up. D’angelo watched the orange sun finish disappearing behind the city skyline. He let out a sigh, drained half his beer with a few gulps, then burped.

“We both know you ain’t in livin’ in no damn cave…”

He shut his eyes and took another sip. He froze in position, shot his eyelids apart, then pounced over to his keyboard.

Sunset Coors Light

He entered the terms into the search engine, then scrolled down like mad to see if he could find anything. The first couple pages were no help, but the third included a link to an article – and a picture of her beside it.

“Damnnn!” said D’angelo.

Sunset was a Coors Light girl – meaning she went to popular sports venues wearing a skimpy two-piece outfit and cheered behind her Coors Light booth. The girl got paid to show up and look good.

The article included a caption with her name at the bottom –

Sunsett Martinez

D’angelo scratched his bald head, wondering if the poor girl had any idea her name was spelled wrong.

He stuck ‘Sunsett’ into his web browser, and an extensive list of profiles lit up his screen. He clicked on her facebook, then bobbed his head back and covered his mouth.

“What the fu…” He muttered.

Tons of half-nude picks – bra and panties, bikinis, and short purple dresses. D’angelo couldn’t look away – but her body had nothing to do with it.

Every shot showed her with a different weapon – steak knife, butcher knife, swiss knife – the girl loved blades.

“I don’t fuck wichu,” D’angelo whispered.

He noticed one of his facebook friends, someone he didn’t know in real life, named Aaron, had posted up and down on her wall. Dude was obsessed – he’d commented and liked every single thing she’d slapped up there. Girl could’ve dressed a corpse like Hitler and he would clicked ‘like’.

D’angelo twisted his lips, then hovered his fingers over the keyboard. He grabbed the mouse instead and clicked on Aaron’s profile.

Pictures of him out drinking with the guys.

“Okay,” said D’angelo. “Okay.”

He fired a direct message off to Aaron.

“You know Sunset?”

Aaron responded before he could blink.

“Yea, of course!”

“She cool?” wrote D’angelo.

“Huh?”

“Don’t know how to say this bro… but is she C-R-A-Z-Y???”

D’angelo tapped his fingers on the desk. He groaned, stood up, grabbed another beer, then sat back down. Aaron still hadn’t responded. D’angelo cracked open his beer and inhaled a fresh sip. Still no response. D’angelo waited. And waited. And waited…

Tired of staring at the screen, he propped his feet up on the windowsill and coddled his beer.  He watched the cars pass by without much interest, until a purple civic caught his attention. Nothing super bizarre – it just kept driving past his apartment one direction, then return going the other direction every ten minutes or so. He told himself it was nothing – John from the loony bin was in his head. Dude claimed cars drove in patterns, after all.

The half-empty Michelob Ultra slipped from D’angelo’s grip and dinged against his wood-paneled floor as he dozed off. He remained out cold, until the repetitive and loud beep from his phone finally woke him up.

D’angelo rubbed his eyes open, gave his cheek a little slap, then made his way over to the fridge. He tugged the door open when his phone beeped again. D’angelo slid it out from his pocket – text from an unknown number. D’angelo opened it.

Coming to kill you.

To be continued…

• Thomas M. Watt

CLICK HERE FOR PART 4!

Sunset – Part 2

If you missed Part 1, click here.

“Bad thoughts,” she said, then whirled around and strutted away.

“That was strange, very strange.”

D’angelo turned around. Guy with a brown raincoat and aviator glasses took the barstool behind him.

“What?” said D’angelo.

“That whole thing, you know, with that girl? Sunset? Didn’t seem normal… not at all. Did it?”

“No,” said D’angelo. Weird was one way to describe that bombshell – Threatening fit better.

“Name’s John,” said the man in aviator glasses.

D’angelo shook his hand.

“She wanted your number, didn’t she? And that was it? Sunset?”

D’angelo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yo bartender!”

The bartender stopped shaking the drink he’d been mixing.

“‘Nother whiskey ginger,” said D’angelo, tapping the bar counter. “Let’s go.”

“That was all she wanted?” said John.

D’angelo turned to him. “You’re wearin’ sunglasses. In a bar.”

John smirked.

“CIA or something?” said D’angelo.

Now John honed a full-on grin.

“Aight,” said D’angelo. “Whatchu got on that?”

“Suspicious, to say the least, dangerous, to say the most.”

“What kinda danger? You know her?”

John slid D’angelo a napkin and a pen.

“I can help, I think,” said John. “Number.”

D’angelo held a blink.

“Your number, write it down.” said John.

“Bartender!” said D’angelo.

“Hurry, time is running out. You should write it down, I think.”

“Why?”

“I can help, I deal with things… like this. A lot.”

“What things?”

“Odd Patterns. Stuff normal people miss.”

“You’re losin’ me.”

John chuckled. “I’m not surprised, but you are.”

D’angelo shook his head, then wrote down his number on the bar napkin. “Yo bartender!”

The bartender groaned as he brought over the whiskey ginger.

“9-1-8, 2-1-0-9,” said John.

D’angelo took his drink, then swirled it around.

“That’s why she wanted your number.”

D’angelo took a hefty swig, then coughed. “What?”

“The numbers. They mean something. You don’t know?”

“It’s a phone number. You get it at random.”

“You think. But sometimes, quite often, people think wrong. Others don’t.”

“Others? What? What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

John laughed through his nose. “Ordinary people, they never fail to amuse me,” he said, then tapped D’angelo’s digits into his smartphone.

“That makes you… what?”

“Extra-ordinary,” said John, with a sideways smile. He stood up. “Why don’t you come with me, I think you should.”

D’angelo raised his eyebrows, then followed John’s lead. John was much taller and well built, and oddly took long strides with only one leg. The two of them ditched the bar and carried on along the sidewalk outside.

“Everyday, millions of people go about their lives thinking they’re in control, but they’re not. Thinking that there is no big brother, thinking conspiracy theorists are loony, a bit nutty.”

D’angelo stopped. “That you? A Conspiracy theorist?”

John pulled his aviator glasses down to the tip of his nose. “I’m no theorist.”

D’angelo scratched the back of his head and nodded. The two returned to their pace.

“Why would the government, the U.S. government, care about a guy like you, is what you’re probably wondering,” said John.

“All I’m wonderin’ is why I’m still talkin’ to you.”

“The numbers.”

“What of ’em?”

“You want to know what I see, right, that’s what want you to know?”

“Nailed it bro.”

“Ok, alright, I see.”

“I don’t,” said D’angelo.

John laughed hysterically.

“Waddup, bro?”

“You do see. If you didn’t, you would trip, or at least need a cane.”

“Numbers John,” said D’angelo, before snapping. “Out with it.”

“Ok, I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to believe me.”

“I believe that.”

“Those numbers – your numbers, your phone number-”

“God-damn, bro! Spit it out!”

“Okay, I will, just hold on,” said John, before sticking his arm out. “You spot it?”

“What!”

“The cars – did you, do you notice that?”

“You’re on one.”

“A pattern. Green, red, red, blue, black, white.”

“Huh?”

“Watch,” said John, before pointing.

“You’re losin’ me bro.”

“Your phone number. It’s got coordinates.”

“What?”

“Treasure. Verizon didn’t give you that number – U.S. government did. Heard of Fort Knox?”

“You’re high.”

“Most certainly, I am not. Fort Knox doesn’t hold any treasure – it’s a showroom. All of it, an empty museum. Treasure is buried – destination? Unknown.”

“Ho-ly fuck.”

“People have been searching for it – people like me. She’s one of them. You can tell by her hair – purple streak? Symbolic.”

“Illuminati?”

“Knights of Templar. You’re the one. You’ve been chosen.”

D’angelo stared at him.

“Don’t worry, I don’t want the treasure. Gold means nothing to me. I’m a hunter, it’s what I do.” John violently grabbed D’angelo by the throat, forced his back against the building beside them, then pressed close with a finger in his face.

“But if you cross me, and I do solemnly swear it, I will kill you. It’s also what I do. I’ve done it before – treasure’s my life. Not keeping it, just finding it, I want to be the one who finds it. You can be the one it belongs to – but I’m going to be the one who finds it. I was born for that, destiny, it’s my gift. I had no ordinary birth-”

“Get off me!” said D’angelo, shoving John away. John fell on the ground, and his aviator glasses spilled off his face onto the sidewalk. Still at a hunch, he rushed to pick them up. D’angelo stomped on them before he could get a hold of them.

“You’re fucking crazy,” said D’angelo. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

John gradually erected straight. He glared back, red-faced and shaking.

D’angelo quit looking him in the eyes. “You’re crazy bro,” he said, then patted him on the shoulder.

John inhaled giant gulps of air, both fists clenched.

D’angelo shook his head, took two quick steps, then checked over his shoulder – John hadn’t moved. D’angelo broke into a sprint away.

To be continued…

• Thomas M. Watt

CLICK HERE FOR PART 3!

Sunset – Part 1

Coming to kill you.

D’angelo read the text, fumbled his phone back into his pocket, then spun around.

• * *

3 HOURS EARLIER

Orange glow of the sun hovered over the horizon. D’angelo had just gotten his head shaved and beard trimmed at the local barber shop. Nothing unusual this day – other than the young girl who’d nearly killed herself crossing the street. She had headphones in and never checked for cars before setting foot on the crosswalk. D’angelo spotted and grabbed her before a BMW plowed her into oblivion. The thanks he’d gotten from those nearby was great, but the fact he didn’t have to wait around to file a witness report was thanks in itself.

D’angelo lived a good life – lots a work, a little play… What more is there? A long day with a few good sales called for a drink at the local pub.

Whiskey and ginger, that was his shit. Lakers game on a Tuesday evening didn’t require much. But that’s when she entered – thick body, round cheeks, and a streak of purple in her jet black hair. Girl’s a freak – just his type.

“Number,” she said.

D’angelo eyed her, then checked over his opposite shoulder. “Who you talking to?”

“Ghost behind you.”

Dangelo smiled and laughed. She didn’t.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Order me a drink.”

D’angelo scratched his neck, then whistled for the bartender.

“Yes?” said the bartender.

“Get this lady a cocktail.”

“Try again,” she said.

“Margarita,” said D’angelo.

The bartender raised his eyebrows at her.

“Coors Light,” she said.

D’angelo laughed.

“Sunset,” she said.

“What?”

“My name.”

“Your name’s sunset?”

The bartender brought over her drink.

“Yes,” said Sunset. Soon as she took the Coors Light, she swapped it with D’angelo’s whiskey ginger. Sunset sucked down D’angelo’s drink through the skinny red straw ’till nothing but ice remained.

“Who do you think you-“

“Open your ears, I told you already. Phone number,” said Sunset, before holding out her phone.

D’angelo scoffed, then shook his head. “I’m not into bossy women, you know,” he said, then entered his number into her contacts. He gave the phone back to her.

Sunset stood up and started away. D’angelo grabbed her by the elbow.

“Where you going?”

She looked down at the grip he had on her, then slowly lifted her gaze until her purple lasers were aimed at him. “Don’t,” she said.

“Okay, alright.” He let go. “Sorry.”

“Me too,” she said, then started off.

D’angelo swiveled on the bar stool, stood up and spat out his words.”For leaving, or what?”

The clicking of Sunset’s heels ceased. She kept her back to him for a moment, then rotated around slowly. When she faced him again, she wore a red lipstick smile from ear to ear. Sunset strolled back to D’angelo, cupped her hands around his ears, then pushed a wet kiss onto his lips.

“Bad thoughts,” she said, then whirled around and strutted away.

To be continued...

• Thomas M. Watt

CLICK HERE FOR PART 2!

Donald and Thurma – Part 4 – Finale

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

“I think I can,” he said to himself, chugging along the sidewalk tracks. “I think I can.”

Donald walked with both fists clenched. Amanda and Thurma strolled a short ways ahead, Thurma with her head down.

He wasn’t angry, he was determined – and approaching a girl who was more than likely to reject him was no easy task for Donald.

“Hey,” he called out.

The two girls turned around. Amanda smirked, and crossed her arms. Thurma stilted like a wooden statue.

“Let me guess,” said Amanda. “You found something and were wondering if it belongs to Thurma. Is that your excuse for talking to her? Because that’s not exactly original.”

“No,” said Donald. “I want to talk to her as myself.”

“Why?” said Amanda, narrowing her eyes. “Been acting like somebody else?”

Donald stared straight at Thurma. “Have you?”

Silence.

“Erm, I’ll leave you two alone,” said Amanda, before patting her friend on the shoulder and walking on ahead.

“What are you talking about?” Thurma said to him.

“This shit.” Donald pointed back to the bar. “You want some dipshit frat-boy, let me know and I’ll leave right now.”

“I don’t want that.”

“I’m a dork. My name’s Donald by the way.”

“Mine’s Thurma.”

“You’re one too.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Thurma. She twisted her lip, then sighed and lowered her gaze to his feet. “But maybe I’m not the bitch who you met, either.”

“Good.”

She looked back up. “Maybe I am just a basic bitch. Maybe if you knew the real me, you wouldn’t have come running to talk to me.”

“I like basic bitches. I’m a basic dude.”

Thurma chuckled, then hid her teeth behind her hand. “So what do you want?”

“Huh?”

“What are you after?” She said, then set her hands on her hips. “Is it a number, to brag to your friend about? Because if you really think you’re going to sleep with me tonight-”

“I came to talk with you. That’s all.”

“Why?”

“Because when I look at you I see a part of me, the part that I like.”

“What part’s that?”

Donald scratched the back of his head, then looked away. “I like good morning texts. I like snuggling. I like having to tell a girl she doesn’t have to worry about what’s-her-name, no matter how paranoid she’s being, or clingy she becomes.”

“I’m not following you.”

Donald shook his head, then returned his gaze to Thurma. He creased his brow when he noticed the mark on her chin, then leaned forward to get a better look at it.

“Stop!” she said, then covered the mark with her hand. “That’s rude.”

Donald grabbed her wrist and forced it away, then set his thumb on her chin. “I like the scar you try to hind behind your makeup.”

Thurma’s exhale came heavy. “Oh…”

“The stuff that puts other guys off, that’s the stuff that I like. You could say that’s from low-confidence, but I don’t think it is. I think it’s a preference.”

“Ok.”

“There’s no line I can say to make you want me, there’s no maneuver I can use that will get you to like me back.”

Thurma’s eyes fidgeted in Donald’s.

“I’m just saying that I’d like to get to know you. If that friend zones me, then fine-”

“You said it.”

“What?”

“About fifteen seconds ago. You said the line that won me.”

“Huh?”

“Kiss me dork.”

Donald moved in with a smirk, then gave Thurma a light peck on the cheek.

Thurma shook her head, then scolded him with a finger wag. “I swear to God, if that’s what you think it means to kiss a girl don’t ever-”

Donald slid his hand through her hair, raking her brunnette locks up in his fingers until he had his hand wrapped around the back of her head. He advanced until her forearm fell flat against his chest, then dug his lips into hers. Thurma’s eyes dropped closed and the phone she had been holding unraveled from her fingers and plummeted until it cracked against the sidewalk. She immediately pressed her newly-freed hand against the side of his face.

An obnoxious series of honks was followed by a loud holler:

“Fuck her already, bro!” Yelled Freddy.

Donald finally took a step back.

“Number,” said Thurma.

“I think your phone broke.”

“Ok.”

Donald smiled, then wrote his down on a wrinkled napkin he’d stored in his pocket. “Nice meeting you,” he said, then turned around and headed towards Freddy’s escalade. Once he took his seat Freddy sped away.

“You better get a tit-pit,” said Freddy.

Donald grinned and looked at him.

“What?” said Freddy.

“I’m the man,” said Donald.

“You’re a man, not sure if you’re the man.”

“No,” said Donald, before turning the bass up on Freddy’s sound system. “I’m the man.”

The End!

Hope you enjoyed.

• Thomas M. Watt

Fail

Donald and Thurma – Part 3

If you haven’t read part 1, start here.

If you haven’t read part 2, start here.

“Waddup bitches, see you’ve met my friend. Huge cock, case you were wondering.  Name’s Freddy,” said Freddy, as he extended his hand out for the girls to shake.

Donald took Freddy’s hand, then yanked him along with him, away from the two girls. “Time to leave.”

“Strip club?” said Freddy.

The pair passed through the doorway, hurried by the smoke crowds, and headed toward the parking lot.

“She’s not feeling it. I don’t want to be here, this isn’t me,” said Donald.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Freddy. He stopped on the sidewalk. “If you want to leave to go somewhere else, that’s one thing, but if you wanna book it ’cause of some chick-”

“I know, I get it, that makes me a pussy.”

“Jeeze, Donald,” said Freddy. He looked his buddy in the eye. “I wasn’t gonna call you that, you know.”

“Ok.”

“Super pussy. That was it.” Freddy’s eyes bulged, and he pointed back toward the bar. “Look!”

Donald whirled around. The two girls were approaching, only Thurma walked stilted, like Amanda may have had a gun to her back.

“Bye I guess,” Thurma said to Donald, as they passed.

Donald waved back. “Nice meeting you,” he muttered after they were out of earshot.

“Is your dick for sale cause that shits in demand these days,” said Freddy.

“What are you talking about?”

“You leave. She leaves. She comes your way, wishes you a goodnight, checks out your package. What do you do? You rotate your hand like the slow-mix setting of a god-damned cake mixer.”

“She checked out my package?”

“Winked at it.”

Donald gulped, lightly patted his hair, then slid his hand along his button-down to smooth out the creases. He then shook his head and turned to Freddy.

“I’m only going over there if you’re one-hundred percent sure she’s interested.”

“Bro,” started Freddy. “Interests is for loaners. Girl is invested. You know who invests?”

“Stock-brokers?”

“Heart breakers.”

“What?”

“Shit rhymes, bro,” said Freddy. “Called a metaphorical simile.”

“Huh?”

Freddy kicked Donald in the ass, leading him to stumble off in the direction of Amanda and Thurma.

“Go get her heart-breaker,” said Freddy.

Donald caught himself then continued to follow his feet.”I think I can,” He said to himself. A new flurry of visuals played through his mind, the type he wasn’t accustomed to – confident images. He stopped thinking of himself as an inconvenience to the world around him, and began to entertain the possibility that he actually could make a girl happy, and maybe Thurma would be the one for him.

“I think I can,” he said to himself, chugging along the sidewalk tracks. “I think I can.”

To be continued…

• Thomas M. Watt

Donald and Thurma – Part 2

If you haven’t read part 1, start here.

Donald and Freddy sat at a back table, a beer to each of them.

“Who you keep staring at?” said Freddy.

Donald shook his head. “Nobody, forget it.”

“Don’t be a pussy. Who is it?”

“The girl I ran into at the door. She seemed nice.”

“We want bad bitches, not basic bitches. Where she at?”

Freddy poked his head up like an ostrich, prompting Amanda and Thurma to stop looking in Donald’s direction.

“The blonde or brunette?” said Freddy.

“God, you have to be so obvious?”

Freddy smacked Donald on the forearm. “You have to be such a bitch? Blonde one’s hotter, go for her.”

“No. I like the brunette,” said Donald, glancing at Thurma after he said it.

“Makes sense, you don’t have enough confidence to take down a tiger like that blonde. Girl got a dumper.”

“Tiger? Dumper? What?”

“Are you gonna go over there or just sit here and talk about going over there?” said Freddy.

Donald scratched the back of his head, then crossed his arms and sunk into the table. He took a sip of his drink.

“Let me finish my beer first. That way I have a reason to-”

Before he could finish his sentence, Freddy knocked the glass mug off the table. It shattered and the blue moon washed away.

“What the hell?” said Donald.

“Oh shit, looks like you need another drink! Now get your ass over there and talk to her.”

Donald bit his lips, checked out Thurma again, then stood up.

“Fine.”

“And remember-”

“What?”

“Be an asshole. Else you’ll be stuck in the friend zone again.”

Donald sighed. “Got it,” he said, then started over to the bar.

• * *

“Oh, he’s coming,” said Amanda, nudging her friend.

“Which one? The douche or the one who maybe lifeguards during rainy days in autumn?” said Thurma.

Amanda’s head bobbed back. “That was a pretty specific description.”

“Just tell me!”

“The tall one with the good-boy hair.”

“God no. Shit. I don’t want to do this. Come with me to the bathroom,” Thurma said, then stood up from her bar stool.

Amanda grabbed the bottom of her skirt and whipped it up.

“Stop!” Said Thurma, snapping back into her seat.

“Haha. You’re going through with this. Remember – demand respect.”

“By being a bitch?”

“Yep.”

“Oh shit. God dammit. Got it.”

The two went quiet, and Donald took the seat beside Thurma.

• * *

Donald turned to Thurma, and the two met eyes. Neither smiled, and both instantly looked straight ahead.

“Waddup,” said Donald.

“Who are you talking to?”

Donald looked at her. “Oh. Didn’t notice you there. You’re so short.”

Thurma raised her eyebrows, then turned to Amanda. Amanda pushed her so hard Thurma’s barstool rocked and sent her colliding into Donald.

Donald caught her in his arms. “Be careful! You okay…  idiot?”

“Yeah, I – What?”

“What.”

Thurma pursed her lips together. “You’re not good enough for me. Bye.”

“Oh. Ok,” said Donald. He began looking around for Freddy, but his friend had disappeared from their table.

“Who are you looking for?” said Thurma, hands to her hips. “And why are you still here?” She brushed one of her curly brown locks back behind her ear, then stood with her hands at her hips.

“More… bitches,” said Donald.

“You’re looking for more bitches?”

“Yea. Badder ones. You’re a basic… be-yotch.”

“We prefer the to be called females.”

“Oh ok. I’m looking for more females.”

“You sound like a moron.”

“Ok,” said Donald. Both opened their mouths to speak at the same time, then stopped when they thought the other person would. Neither said anything, and both looked away.

“You’re kind of a b,” said Donald.

“A b?” said Thurma, before pressing her tongue into her teeth. “What’s that b stand for, eh?”

“I said ‘B’, not ‘A’.”

They both smiled and laughed.

Something gave Donald a sudden jolt forward, and his momentum sent him shoving Thurma into Amanda. Both girls spilled their drinks all over their dresses, then stared at Donald with shark jaws.

Wide-eyed, Donald slowly turned around to see who had shoved him.

“Waddup bitches, see you’ve met my friend. Huge cock, case you were wondering.  Name’s Freddy,” said Freddy, as he extended his hand out for the girls to shake.

To be continued…

– Thomas M. Watt

Donald and Thurma – Part 1

Donald sat in the passenger seat of Freddy’s Escalade, still glaring at the same text:

I just think you and I are better off as friends.

He shook his head, then stared out the window.

“I’m telling you bro,” said Freddy. “You took too long to make your move. That’s where you messed up.”

“It shouldn’t be like that,” said Donald.

“Well it is like that! Girls like dudes who are aggressive. Stop pussy-footing around, I want you to be a man tonight.”

Donald scoffed.

“C’mon dude,” said Freddy. “This bar’s going to have a ton of hot chicks tonight. You’re gonna get yours, and you’re going to feel a lot better.”

“I could give two shits about getting laid,” said Donald.

“And that’s your problem.”

“Why?”

“She stuck you in the friend zone, didn’t she?”

“So?”

Freddy turned to Donald and raised his eyebrows. “What is the one thing that separates friends from lovers?”

Donald gazed at the text again, then sighed.

“You can’t be afraid to hurt their feelings. There’s a reason girls always fall for assholes.”

Donald stared out the passenger window for a bit.

“You hearin’ me bro?” said Freddy.

Donald stuffed his phone in his pocket. “Ok. Tonight we do it your way.”

• * *

Thurma and her friend Amanda walked to the bar together. It was only a few blocks from their apartment.

“I’m telling you!” said Amanda. “Greg walked all over you because you let him. You have to stop being so nice to these assholes.”

“I never said he was an asshole,” said Thurma.

“All guys are assholes.”

Thurma laughed.

Amanda playfully smacked her arm. “You think I’m joking, but I’m not. At least, that’s the way you have to approach the game.”

“What game?”

“Love! It’s a game, and if you haven’t figured that out by now than I’m afraid even I can’t help you.”

“Why can’t I just be myself and find someone who likes me for who I am?”

“Because that doesn’t exist. Guys like bitches and hoes. Which one are you?”

Thurma cracked a chuckle. “Neither, jeeze!”

“Well I’m a bitch.

“Not to me,” said Thurma.

“To guys I am. And you know what?”

“What?” said Thurma.

Amanda’s phone beeped. She held it out for Thurma to see, then smiled at her. “Oh, what’s this? Another ‘I’m sorry’ text? God, I swear I must have ignored a hundred of these already.”

“That’s mean.”

“All is fair in love and war Thurma.”

“So what are you telling me? I should just start acting like a bitch to every guy I talk to?”

“If you want them to respect you, than yeah.”

Thurma shook her head.

“One night. Just try it out! See how it feels.”

They reached the bar, and Thurma took hold of the entry door when Amanda grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her back.

“What?” said Thurma.

“I want you to promise me. One night.”

“Be a bitch?” said Thurma.

Amanda grinned. “Demand respect.”

“By being a bitch?”

Amanda looked off to the side, then shrugged.

Thurma rolled her eyes. “Alright. For one night.”

“That’s the spirit!”

She turned around and reached for the door handle again, but this time she met hands with Donald, who grabbed it at the exact same time.

“Oh,” said Donald. “Sorry.”

Thurma laughed. “It’s okay.”

“HEY! Let’s move it along here!” said Freddy, who came up quick behind Donald.

“Ya, please do,” said Amanda, before pulling Thurma away from them.

Donald entered the bar with Freddy, and shortly after Thurma and Amanda followed behind.

To be continued…

• Thomas M. Watt

Craig and the BK Lounge – Part 2 – Finale!

If you missed Part 1, start here.

“Dear… God,” said Craig.

Buford and Marlon came sprinting from the Burger King across the street. They had decided to chase after Craig, who apparently had ‘desecrated’ the restaurant they worked at when he spilled the french fries he had ordered after passing through the drive thru. Still soaking wet from the coca-cola the two had poured on him, Craig had no choice but to rush inside the auditorium and begin the conference.

This was Craig’s last real shot to turn things around, and he knew it. The last few months had been difficult – one odd-job after another was no way to pay the bills. Not long ago Craig was one of Forbes top 10 motivational speakers, and now he found it difficult just to get himself out of bed every morning. With an imminent foreclosure in the works, everything was riding on this conference – after all, fifteen of the country’s richest CEOs had come to hear him speak.

Craig entered the auditorium, where he estimated five to ten thousand business professionals sat waiting for his talk.

“Where have you been?” said Darcy, his assistant. “You’re late!” She reached out to straighten his tie, then noticed the coca-cola drenching his suit. “Oh my God-”

“Just work with me, okay? Where’s my mic?”

“You look like shit.”

Craig stared back at her.

“Here,” said Darcy. She held out the microphone, and he grabbed it from her.

Craig turned it on, then secretly wished he could somehow fast-forward the next five hours. He opened while walking up the center aisle toward the stage.

“The key to success,” he began. There must have been at least a thousand murmurs about the dark soft drink dripping from his suit. He climbed on stage, then walked toward the podium. Every step he took was accompanied by a rubbery ‘squeak.’ Craig adjusted his collar.

“You see the key  to success is-” A sharp ringing from the microphone interrupted Craig and caused many in the audience to cover their ears. Craig lowered his head and sighed, then began to turn and twist his ear, a nervous habit he hadn’t been able to break since he was a child.

The hushed voices surrounding him quickly turned to full-blown conversations, and Craig didn’t have to be telepathic to know they were talking about him. This was it for Craig – his career as a motivational speaker was finished. He’d be lucky to ever work a decent-paying job again.

The doors to the auditorium flew open. The two Burger King employees, who were now wearing the plastic ‘King’ crowns the fast-food chain is notorious for, stormed in.

“Oh shit,” Craig said, into the microphone.

“Oh shit is right!” Shouted Buford, before flipping his mullet.

The audience turned around to face the men when they stood at the back. It was not uncommon for motivational speakers to use guest speakers as gimmicks to keep their audience engaged – unfortunately for Craig, this was not part of his act.

“Tell these fools why you better than us!” Said Marlon, who was Asian.

The audience laughed.

“Yeah!” Said Buford. “Tell ’em all about how crappy the BK lounge is these days.”

“Or how you hate black people,” added Marlon.

The audience gasped, then turned to Craig.

“Or!” said Buford. The audience returned their attention to him. “You can tell them the same thing you told us.”

“Yeah!” said Marlon. “Tell ’em Buford!”

Buford did:

“Tell him about how you went out of your way, came over to our place of work, and told us how to do our jobs better!”

“Yeah!” said Marlon.

Buford went on. “Tell ’em how, when I asked if I could take your order, you tried to get me to do my job better. Crappy service! That’s what this man said to me!”

Buford shook his mop at Craig. The audience started laughing. “This guy comes to me, wearing his freshly pressed suit, driving his Mercedez Benz, and tries telling me how I can be more like him!”

The audience cheered Buford on. He broke into a run, then climbed on stage. Marlon followed after him, but tripped and fell his first eight attempts. Buford paced around the stage as he continued. “Just cause I work at Burger King, that don’t mean you can come here and tell me how to do my job! That don’t give you no right to insult my service, say you’re gonna eat somewhere else if I don’t pull it together!’ He pointed at Craig. “But this man did.”

The audience cheered.

“Only rich dude I ever known in my whole life, who feels compelled to come to the BK Lounge, demand I wait on his order, then create a huge mess, just to make sure I would actually clean it up!”

Craig took a good view of the audience – they were grinning, nodding even.

“And it’s because of this man, ladies gentlemen, that I am here today.”

Everybody stood up – a standing ovation!

“Thank you,” said Craig, reaching out to Buford’s shoulder.

“I’m not finished!” he said, then swatted his hand away. “You think I’m finished talking about you, let me tell ya! I’m just getting started. Earlier today, he comes and says…”

For the next five hours, Buford repeatedly rallied the audience to their feet and convinced several of the country’s most powerful figures that even a Burger King drive-thru worker could learn to be as motivated as someone like Craig. After the seminar, all anyone could talk about was how remarkable Craig was for having such a tremendous influence on Buford’s life. Craig left the auditorium hanging his head, however, for he knew as soon as he got home he’d be back to dealing with the foreclosure of his home.

“Craig!” Yelled one of the country’s elite CEOs.

He turned around. “Yes?”

“That was some impact you had on that young man who spoke today!”

Craig scratched his neck, then turn to look at Buford and Marlon as they crossed the street. The men were at least ten years older than Craig. He returned to the CEO. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome! How would you like to come work for me?”

Craig tried to smile, then walked closer and let out a breath. “To be honest with you sir, I’m dealing with piles of unpaid bills and a soon-to-be auctioned home.”

“Then I assume you’ll take it?”

“I don’t mean to be frank, but unless the starting figure is six figures and starts tomorrow, I’m going to have to busy myself with lawyers and bank meetings for the next few months.”

The CEO looked both ways, then began walking toward a white van and waved for Craig to follow. Craig did, but stayed a few paces back out off caution.

“My company doesn’t believe in the green,” said the CEO, as he unlocked the door to his white van.

“The green? Sorry sir, I don’t follow.”

He opened the door, and outpoured gold coins, diamonds, and jewlery. It was as if the CEO had just driven from robbing a pharoahs tomb in Egypt.

“Dear God!” shouted Craig. “Where did you get all this?” he stopped, checked over his shoulder, then whispered to the CEO again. “I must be staring at a hundred million dollars right now.”

The CEO picked up a gold coin, rubbed it with his fingers, then flipped it over to Craig. “You’ll take the job then?”

“Absolutely!” said Craig.

The CEO smiled again, then reached inside the van. This time he retrieved a robe and crown, both of which he put on to wear.

“I just have one question, if you don’t mind,” said Craig.

“Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Who… are you?”

“I am,” began the CEO, before grabbing hold of Craig’s shoulder. “The Burger King.”

• Thomas M. Watt

Craig and the BK Lounge – Part 1

Craig had ten minutes before he’d be introducing himself as the keynote speaker in a conference that included fifteen of the country’s richest CEOs. He was across the street from the building, and just about to pull in, when he made a last minute decision to yank the steering wheel left, and take his rented Mercedes over to Burger King.

If he didn’t eat now, he’d be speaking on an empty stomach for the next five hours. And Craig knew all too well that this was his last chance to impress the right people and find a way to save his house from foreclosure. Hell, if it went really well, he might even be able to lease a decent car!

“What you want?” came the voice through the drive-thru menu.

“Yea, just give me a minute, I need to order something healthy. Sorry, I just can’t afford to feel like crap today.”

Craig looked sharp – freshly pressed suit, striped tie, polished shoes. He checked himself in the rear-view mirror, then brushed the little bit of hair he had left over his bald spot. Craig frowned.

“Go get food somewhere else then.” Said the drive-through speaker.

“Sorry? What was that?”

“If our food’s so crappy, order somewhere else.”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” said Craig. He smeared his forehead with his hand. “I just said, I said I can’t afford to feel crappy today. I’d like to order a-”

“Oh,” said the drive-thru employee. There was a sudden static sound, like a hand had grabbed onto the microphone. “He said he doesn’t want to feel crappy today.”

Craig heard a second employee say: “So our food makes people feel like crap, now?”

“No, just this asshole. Look at him. Sitting in his Mercedez, new suit, thinks he’s better than us. You’re bald asshole, why don’t you just go kill yourself!”

“Uh, excuse me,” said Craig.

“What you want?”

“Just forget it. I’m not going to order anything, just let me pass through and I’ll-”

“OH!” said the employee through the speaker. “Couldn’t find the non-crap menu, is that it?”

“No, it’s not that. I just have a really important conference that I need to get to.”

The same crumpled static sound returned. Craig shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he overheard another private conversation.

“What’d that bald asshole say?”

“He says he’s got a important conference to go to. Says our foods not that crappy.”

“He says it’s not that crappy?”

“Yea! You believe that?”

“Tell him he gets a free meal, on us.”

“Why?”

“So we can spit in it.”

Craig crossed his arms and waited for the employee to return to him.

“Sir,” came the voice.

“Yea?” said Craig.

“We at the Burger King have decided to offer you a free meal to make up for our crappy service.”

“It’s really ok. I’m just going to pass through once this guy in front of me gets his meal.” He checked his watch – five minutes before he needed to be on stage.

“Oh. Don’t worry, we got a speedy delivery service.”

Craig scratched his temple, then muttered to himself. “Speedy delivery?”

The customer ahead of him completed their purchase. The employee in the drive-thru window stuck his head out, then pointed at Craig. He had eyes as narrow as a falcons, and a long mullet in the back. He held an Xtra large fountain soda in one hand, and pointed at Craig with the other.

“Oh no,” said Craig.

He slammed down the gas pedal, and burned rubber as he tore through the drive-thru lane. Right as he was passing the window, both employees hurled coca-cola and french fries into the rental Mercedez. The food and drink splashed and stuck to Craig’s clean suit.

“Shit!” Craig yelled, screeching to a halt. He got out from his Mercedez and brushed the fries off. He shook his head, then shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Can’t afford to be upset today,” he told himself. “The wife and kids are counting on you.”

Craig opened his eyes to find the fast food manager standing by the doorway outside.

“Buford, Marlon! Get out here, some suit driving a Mercedez just poured his french fries out. Come pick it up.”

“Oh no,” said Craig. He rushed back into the rental car, sped straight across the street, then pulled into the parking lot. He took another deep breath, then spoke to himself again. “You can do this. Just calm down, that’s all behind you now.”

Craig exited his Mercedez, straightened his coca-cola stained suit, then checked his watch – he still had three minutes. “Punctuation is key to peak performance,” he said then adjusted his striped tie and smiled.

“You!”

Craig slowly turned and looked in the direction of the yell. Running across the street was Buford and Marlon.

Buford pointed with his mop. “You think you can desecrate the BK lounge and get away with it!”

“Dear… God,” said Craig.

To be continued…

• Thomas M. Watt