125 - Thousand Beer Stare


You are drinking in the back of your El Camino in the parking lot of the Costco because it’s Tuesday and last time you checked this was still America.

You pluck the last Keystone Light from the six pack ring. Gonna have to run to Costco to grab some more. First things first, though. You throw the six pack ring on the ground next to your car.

A young father carrying a toddler is passing by you on the other side of the aisle and witnesses your act of littering. “Hey, man. Pick that up.”

You spring to your feet in the bed of your ahead-of-its-time car-truck hybrid. The state-of-the-art suspension allows you to use the floor of the bed as a springboard, propelling you into the air with the grace of a dancer. You trip over the tailgate and fall to the concrete, landing flat on your face. You feel your nose crack, but spring to your feet because mama didn’t raise no pansy-boy.

“The fuck you say to me, boy?” you shout across the aisle, towards the young man. Droplets of blood shoot from your nose and mouth as you speak.

The young man’s face goes all fucky and he looks at you crossways. “I said pick that up. Those things find their way into waterways and kill fish, dude,” he shouts back at you. Then he just stands there with his palms out like some kinda idiot.

“Hey, daddy douche-bag, I ain’t talkin’ to you. I said boy, did I not?”


Did I not say boy clearly designating my addressee? The answer is yes.” You make your way across the aisle and get right up in the face of the little shit in the young man’s arms. “I know you hear me talking to you, boy. You gonna let your daddy do your talkin’ for ya? You let him do your fightin’ for ya, too?”

“What the fuck?” says the young man, at a complete loss for what to do. Clearly he did not anticipate this reaction.

“Let me tell you somethin’ about life, boy,” you continue your verbal assault on the toddler, “that your daddy’s obviously too afraid to talk to you about. See, he’s worried about the little fishies and their liberal feelings so they can go and vote for gay fish marriage, but let me tell you somethin’, boy, some fish deserve to die.”

“Fuck off, asshole,” the young man says finally before walking away.

“You wasn’t in Grenada, boy! You ain’t seen what a fish can do to a man!” you shout after the fleeing toddler. Boy’s lucky daddy was holding him back, because sure as shit wasn’t nothing gonna hold back your fists of fury.

You carefully climb back into the bed of your El Camino and reseat yourself in the lawn chair resting within. You sip your beer carefully as not to disturb your tender nose.

“Fuckin’ fish.”