It
all started at Humberto’s food truck on 13th street. The whole crew
was there—Antoine, Tink, Shanks, and myself—enjoying the cheap cuisine
at a picnic table beside the truck. Three of us were eating fish tacos, but big
old Shanks was digging into a large bowl of Humberto’s chili con carne.
“Good
thing we ain’t on a job,” Tink said nodding towards Shanks.
The
three of us laughed and Shanks looked up annoyed.
“What
the hell do you know?” Shanks asked through a mouthful of beans.
“Well,
I know that whenever we’re in a car with you on a job, it ain’t a pleasant
experience,” Tink chuckled. “Now I see why.”
We
all laughed again, and Shanks glared.
“I’d
like to see what the hell you got in your fridge at home,” Antoine said. “I’ll
bet it’s a whole bunch of crap.”
“You
don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Shanks said scooping his white plastic spoon
into the bowl. “Ain’t nothin’ in my fridge worth lookin’ at.”
When
he said that, I saw him squint and shift his eyes back and forth real quick.
That was Shanks’ tell for when he was hiding something. And, I was sure I
knew what it was that he was hiding.
“Okay,
Shanks,” I said, “boost a car for tonight’s gig. Metropolitan’s a good bet. We’ll
all meet back here at eight.”
When
the crew split up, I hung back to make sure that Shanks was heading south down
13th towards the Metropolitan public parking garage. Then, I headed
north on 13th to his cheap apartment up past Rollins. I used my special skills
to let myself into his third-floor walk-up.
Shanks
entered the apartment and shuffled his way to the kitchen. The fridge door opened
and after a moment I heard him say, “All right.” Shanks was just checking on his
swag the way a dog checks on a buried bone. His footsteps headed towards the
door.
Suddenly,
a loud, vibrant, elephantine noise erupted as Shanks relieved himself of some
serious gas.
I
stifled a laugh and aimed the shotgun at the shower curtain.
“Damn!”
said Shanks and let out another long, violent, sputtering discharge.
I
tried to control myself, but it was hard. I was shaking with pent-up juvenile
hilarity.
Shanks
ambled into the bathroom and paused. A prolonged sibilant whisper of back-end
discharge came from the other side of the shower curtain. Seconds later, invisible
tendrils of intestinal stink found me in much the same way that my granddad had
been caught by mustard gas in a trench during the Great War. Wishing that I had
thought to hold my breath, I pressed my back against the wall, held my head as
high as I could, and blinked my smarting eyes.
“Okay
then,” Shanks said and lifted the toilet cover with a bang. Then, there was the
biggest blow-out of all. It was long and loud and exclamative and bold and
unusually shrill.
I
couldn’t help it. A laugh exploded out of my mouth.
“What
the hell?” Shanks pulled the shower curtain aside with a quick motion.
I
answered with both barrels.
Michael A. Raithel is the author of five computer programming books, over 200 technical papers and programming blogs, and a book of computer humor: It Only Hurts When I Hit ENTER.
He works as a systems analyst in a
research firm in the Washington, DC suburbs during the day and writes crime and
science fiction stories at night. Michael is a lifelong gym rat and an
avid marathoner.
Thanks for sharing this story, Michael!
ReplyDeleteAC,
ReplyDeleteThank you for providing a great platform for writers known and to be known!
--Michael
It's our honor!
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