Hero is a term that gets bandied about too often these days.
In the Gutter, a Hero is a man who'll answer the door when opportunity knocks.
In the Gutter, a Hero is a man who'll answer the door when opportunity knocks.
Hero by Martin Penn-Woods
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— Todd sat in his
Impala in the strip mall parking lot, snorting crank. He glanced around. He
looked at the front door of Rick's Steak Palace. He was trying to work up the
nerve.
— Double or
nothing, Willie said to Mike as he pulled the grease trap out of the
griddle. It was more of a statement than a question. You're gonna be into me
for forty, Mike warned. Willie followed Mike through the kitchen, trying
not to spill the grease. Mike pushed open the back door. They walked over to
the black 55-gallon steel drum next to the Dumpster.
— Kurt rested on a
milk crate inside the walk-in cooler and smoked weed out of a Granny Smith
apple he found on a shelf. Kurt hadn't made a sandwich for anyone except himself
since he started two weeks ago. But his old man was best friends with Rick and
it was just a stupid summer job, so fuck it.
— Todd pulled his
dollar-store ski mask down over his face. It was too small for his kickball
head. He grabbed the Glock off the seat and hopped out of the car. Todd was
amped.
— Brad the night
manager was on the toilet. If it wasn't the gout, it was his Irritable Bowel Syndrome
flaring up again. Brad read the USA Today sports section and daydreamed about
the Preakness on Saturday. He was gonna party hearty in the infield and see
some serious titties. Long as his colon cooperated.
— Mike slid the lid
off the drum, releasing the stink Kraken. It was filled two-thirds of the way
with a rancid, frothy stew of ribeye grease, fryer oil, burnt gristle and
onions, some other rank shit. Willie dumped in the contents of the grease trap,
then set the trap on the ground. Call it, Mike said, flicking a quarter
in the air. Tails, Willie said. It was heads. Fuck, Willie said.
Willie gripped the sides of the drum, dangled his head over the hideous stench
and inhaled deeply.
— Frank, the last
customer of the night, slowly chewed his cheesesteak in a booth in the back. He
regretted not getting mayo on it because he was afraid they'd make fun of him.
He looked up through the shop's glass front and saw a guy in a ski mask running
up to the door. Frank dropped his cheesesteak in his red plastic basket. He
slid down on the seat and froze.
— Todd burst through
the front door, gun raised. He didn't see anyone. Todd ran up to the register.
He bashed the keys of the register with the handle of the gun until it finally
popped open. He yanked the cash out of the till.
— Holy shit,
Mike laughed as Willie, gagging, pulled his head up, stepped back and gulped in
the night air. Your turn, Willie gasped. Mike assumed the position over
the drum and drew the stink into his lungs. Mike's eyes watered. He stood back
up, smiling. Jesus fucking Christ, Willie said, shaking his head. Ain't
nothin', Mike said. You're up.
— Brad wiped his ass and kept reading the
paper.
— Todd stuffed the
money in his pocket. Too easy, he thought. Todd grinned. He grabbed a
cup from next to the register and went over to the soda machine. He scanned the
machine for Dr. Pepper. They only had Mr. Pibb. Todd scowled.
— Frank tried not to
breathe. He let out a loud fart that rippled across the seat of the booth and
echoed in the room like a thunderclap. He couldn’t help it.
— Todd wheeled
around and looked into Frank's frightened eyes. He darted over to the booth and
pointed the gun in Frank's face. Then Todd had a thought. It seemed like the
most sensible thought that had ever leapfrogged to the front of his
meth-toasted brain. I got the money, I don't need a murder rap, he
thought. Todd grinned again. He lowered the gun. He turned and ran for the
front door.
— Willie put his
head over the top of the drum and inhaled again. His shoulders lurched forward.
He puked. The half-digested crab fries Willie ate an hour earlier splashed into
the stew. Mike punched the air with a victory fist. Forty bucks,
motherfucker, pay up!
— Todd slipped on a patch of freshly
mopped tile. Brad forgot to put up the yellow caution sign when he scurried
into the bathroom. The gun went off. The bullet ripped into Todd's thigh. He
howled and fell to the floor. He dropped the Glock. It went skittering across
the slick floor. Blood shot out from the wound. He must have hit an artery.
Todd pulled himself along the floor, smearing blood all over the tile.
— Brad, his pants
around his ankles, pulled the bathroom door open a crack. He peeked into the
dining room.
— Mike turned around
and looked through the open back door into the kitchen. He couldn't see shit.
Willie wiped vomit off his chin.
— Frank shimmied out
of the booth and slippity slid over to the gun. He'd never seen a pistol in
real life before, just in the movies and TV. He picked it up. It was plastic.
He was surprised. It was lighter than he thought it would be. He held the gun
with both hands, like TV cops did. He pointed it at Todd. It felt weird. Todd
was almost to the door. Frank followed him. He curled his finger around the
trigger. Frank didn't realize how sensitive triggers can be. The gun fired. The
slug slammed into Todd's head. The ski mask held in some of Todd's brains and
skull.
— Kurt stayed inside
the cooler, high as fuck.
— Frank smiled a
dumb, confused smile. It was the same smile he had on his face in the picture
that ran on the front page of the local paper the next day. The headline said, ”Hero
saves four in restaurant robbery nightmare.” He cut the article out for his
grandma. Rick said Frank could have free cheesesteaks for life.
