Tuesday, May 25, 2004

the montana story

We’re at a house party in the neighborhood and Capone’s selling bags of llello. He’s high as a kite, talking fast with crusty white shit in the corners of his mouth. He gets a call, and later two kids from the eastside show up. Capone takes me aside, stuffs his .380 in my pants, and we all go in a bedroom.
I sit in the corner and light a smoke. Capone sits at a desk with the two kids on the bed facing him. He’s sorting through baggies and hands one to kid #1. Kid #2 counts out four $20 bills, and Capone stuffs them in his pocket. Kid #1 is holding up the baggie, tipping it back and forth looking at it. He looks at his friend, then at me, then at Capone.
“Isn’t this a little short?” he says.
Capone is taking long drags off a smoke. He sits up, twists it out on a bottle cap, and looks at kid #1.
“You know, why don’t you go fuck yourself, asshole?” he says.
Both kids just stare at that. There is five full seconds of silence. I take a drag, and hear the paper burn.
The guys look at each other, and kid #1 finally stands up to leave. He walks to the door, opens it, then whirls around and baseball-pitches his beer bottle at Capone. It’s so fast, I don’t even see the bottle. I just hear this loud “pop” and glass sprays the wall. From six feet, the guy missed.
Capone is on his feet instantly and has kid #1 by the neck. Kid #2 looks over at me. I stand up and cock the pistol. His eyes go down to my right hand, then to me, then to Capone. He takes off running.
Capone has kid #1 to his knees, both hands on his neck, yelling “stupid fucking piece of shit” through his teeth. His face looks like it’s about to explode.
I walk over and take a big swing with the butt of the pistol. The guy’s head jerks, and the clip busts out, and bullets spill across the carpet. He goes limp and falls.
“What the fuck!” Capone says and bends down, scooping up shells.
I look up, and realize the entire party has gathered in the doorway, watching us with big eyes—me with a pistol in hand, Capone on all fours picking up shells, a half-dozen bags of llello and a roll of cash on the desk, and some random guy knocked-out on the floor.
Everybody starts laughing. No one helps the kid. Just another neighborhood house party.
After a while, Capone and I finish our beers and drag him to the parking strip, drop him, and come back in. The party continues. No one talks about it.
Later I fall asleep on the couch. The kid’s gone in the morning.

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