“My fightin’ name was Spyder.”
A huge man to my right has leaned in. Why do strangers talk to me without provocation on my part?
He is an enormous man--a man of color. Lines in his face are open novels spinning tales of punishment. Puffy lids and yellowing sockets blink at the bright sunshine outside on the patio at Starbucks. His age? I’m clueless. My guess? About a millennium.
“These my bodyguards.” Spyder regards his fists like a jeweler appraising a diamond setting.
He lifts the left and swivels the wrist. A half inch from my chin it stops. Well!
“This is ‘Oh Lord.” It floats in front of me like a bloated corpse in a dark river.
The other one whistles at a blur and arrives in place of the first.
“And this is ‘Have Mercy.’ A double murder, I suppose.
He starts laughing. Shaking his head at some cryptic interior joke then turns back to his own table and sips his coffee.
I remind you, I haven’t even spoken word one!
All is silent. For awhile.
Spyder turns again. He’s facing me.
(Here we go…)
“You alright. Ya know?”
(Is he asking me or telling me?)
“You too.” (What else should I say?)
He laughs again. Turns away and sips.
Finally, he rises on staunch limbs and exhales a long and slow stream of carbon dioxide.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
He shambles over to a vehicle that appears to be some kind of Humvee and climbs inside.
'Perfect.' I think to myself. 'Dead solid perfect.'
I’m a writer, so...
Here it is.
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