By Marcus Wynne
Copyright 2011 Marcus Wynne
Dedicated to my son, Hunter Wynne
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“Jimmy, get that silly motherfucker out of here before somebody beats him to death,” Big Dick said.
I slid off the beat-up stool just under the peeling sign that said BOUNCER SITS HERE, and rubbed the small of my back where the scar tissue from a chunk of mortar shrapnel rubbed against my spine.
The silly motherfucker in question was a pudgy white boy squeezed into a too tight plaid sport coat. The kind that hid behind body fat and thick glasses until his fourth or fifth beer, when his latent death wish asserted itself in big talk. Big talk is something you earn the right to do in my bar.