Sweetheart, I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen if you drink with me tonight.
First we’ll get talking, then we’re going to laugh a bit, and then we’ll hit our third drink each, and I’ll be in your lap crying like a baby. I haven’t held a woman outside of my mother in three years. Would you believe that? Ex-cons don’t get much of of a break, honey.
And out of pity, which I don’t want or need from you, you’re going to feel obliged to fuck me. You don’t have to do that. You’ll find I have a scar on my belly. It’s not much, but you’ll wonder how I got it and you will ask, so I’m going to just tell you how I got it, and then you can decide what happens next.
It’s not pretty.
By the time I get to the end of this you’ll wonder who you’re talking to, or maybe I’m just the biggest fuckin’ bullshit artist who ever lived. It doesn’t matter. I know the truth and it hurts like hell.
When the knife went in he didn’t even stab. He just started sawing into me and I tumbled from the car bleeding everywhere and going into shock a bit.
As I crawled away and stood up holding my stomach he followed me in his car. He was saying, “ Mate, I’m sorry! I just wanted the job done and I thought you were going to get me first. “
“ Piss off, maggot! I’m unarmed! “
“ Bullshit! You’ve got your keys on ya! I thought you were going to get me first. Get in the car and I’ll take you to the hospital. You’ll make something up. I’ll get your money for at least turning up. How’s that? It won’t be much. “
“ Nice bloody friends I have. Stay away from me. You’re finished! “
He stopped his car as if he wanted to get into it over that and I lurched towards him jingling my keys and bleeding, “ I oughta stab you in the fuckin’ eye. “
And he drove away chirping his tyres.
At my place I tidied myself up and inspected the damage. It was nasty. I stopped the bleeding and my body fat looked a bit like condensed milk to me. It was on me with blood, but I did well, and using superglue and duct tape I pulled the wound together. I had a mug of tawny port and said to myself, “ That dog is a fuckin’ dog! I’m going to fight him. “
And I really don’t go around picking fights.
What made it get to this was a debt. This guy owed some people spondooli some ma-ha-hunny and it came to the attention of the scumbag who knifed me. I thought it was a dumb idea, but I needed the cash. It seemed basic. Have a word to this guy’s daughter and make it clear for her old man to pay his debts. It seemed pretty low, because I just wanted to flatside the guy with a machete in the head and make it clear, but they wanted his family to feel in danger or something. It was a shit idea, but I was desperate, sadly.
Not any sex stuff. That’s not on. Knives? Nuh. I would have made her sit down and shut up and listen. Finding a dumbbell pumping stranger in her house would've been scary enough. I’m not unkind
I expected her to defend herself, but I had that covered, too. It’s called love for something more. Pretty unhealthy move, but it’s passive. Yeah, these days they’re all so blah-blah-blah tough, but to me they’re still scummy. All of them in that place. They don’t love me, I think.
I actually got in through the front door. I tricked a locksmith and he billed a stranger. Anyway, I was inside and made myself quite at home checking all the rooms and bathroom and took photos as proof to get my cash. Two grand is no laughing matter.
As I looked around I noticed I recognised the woman and her name was a bit familiar, too. Then I was turned right off. She was far too pretty. And she had a kid.
Snooping around out of boredom some more I went through the cupboards and found prints of the same woman in very compromising positions. In each of them she was obviously drugged right out. What sparked my curiosity the most was why were they prints? Everyone’s gone digital now, don’t you know?
I put them back and decided to have a coffee and a biscuit in the yard and clean up after myself. I think I did a good job. She just wasn’t coming home, so I left and called the guy to meet me in the Woolworths carpark. I showed him my snapshots, he said he had the money at his place, and then he knifed me.
Back at my place I made the decision to fight him. The walk along Hill Street to the apartments where he lived was a slog, I tell ya. I bled a bit.
He lived on the second floor and when I knocked I was polite, so he’d answer, and he opened the door and said, “ Hey, mate, how are ya feelin’? Do ya want a cone? Sorry ‘bout that. “
I bounced in and slammed the door behind me and looked in his room and bathroom and then I grabbed him and flung him as hard as I could through the glass and frame work of his living room window. If his girlfriend had been there she would’ve run for it and been able to meet him in the carpark.
When I got down there he was crying out and his arm and ribs and hip were injured and I knew I had done the wrong thing, but look at me. That’s a nasty scar. Are you enjoying that drink now?
Yeah, his arm and ribs were busted and I wanted to check his ears for fluid or blood. He struggled and I grabbed his shirt and I held my fist to him to let me check and he was fine. I went through his pockets and got what cash I could. Three hundred bucks. If he’d had a head injury I would’ve dialed it in.
I wasn’t spiteful in any way. I just made it clear, “ You and I are no longer friends. If you come near me again, I’ll put one in you and see how you like it and then we’re even. “
That’s it. That’s how I got my scar. We were all younger once. It’s absurd to say it. Would you believe any of it?
We’re onto our third drink now and no tears. You might be special and I’ve found someone to prove me wrong.
Bio: Mister Hennessy lives in Coffs Harbour NSW Australia. He has been published for poetry, articles, and stories the world over. He continually writes and still manages to keep a smile on his face.