I sit in the Angry Pig Tavern, sipping on whiskey and listening to sad country music blare from the jukebox. It’s a Wednesday afternoon. I’ve been following Billy the Jackass for a little over a week now. He’s never alone—his entourage goes everywhere with him. Aside from me, a few regulars at the bar, and a couple having a late lunch, they’re only other customers at this joint. They’re near the back of the bar, draining pitchers of beer and playing pool. Including Billy, there are five of them in all.
The staff is light. A young dark-haired woman with fake jugs and tats on her arms tends bar with a no nonsense attitude. The perky little blonde gal waiting my table has a smile so bright and eyes so blue and welcoming that I’d rather have her keep bringing me whiskey, instead of what I’m planning to do. There must be a manager somewhere in the back, but he or she hasn’t made their presence known during the past hour plus that I’ve been here.
It looks like Billy the Turd just lost the game he was playing. Scratched on the 8-ball, I believe. He props his cue against the wall and heads to the far back corner of the tavern where the restrooms are. After ten seconds pass, I stand up and head back there too. The other day I came here for a drink and to get the layout of the joint, including the bathroom. The men’s room has a toilet stall and a couple urinals, and the most important detail is that the entrance door has a working deadbolt.
I figure that this may be my only chance to get the bastard alone. And just outside the bathroom is an emergency exit, so I can make a quick escape, if necessary.
With a whoosh of the door, I enter the bathroom. Billy the Dipshit, wearing those size 14 or 15 cowboy boots and a black Stetson cowboy hat, is in mid-stream. He doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder, so I slowly turn the latch to secure the deadbolt in place. This guy looks even bigger close up; I’d say he’s about 6’6”, 260 pounds, and is in excellent condition. I won’t be able to simply overpower him. And pulling my gun won’t scare a guy like him—he’ll know my intention isn’t to shoot him and he’ll probably try to overtake me. Too risky.
No, I need to do something drastic to get his attention first.
In the stall, I ease the cover off the toilet tank and exit. While Billy is shaking his hog, I crack him on the back of the head with the ceramic slab. His Stetson falls in the urinal and he drops to his knees like a crack whore. Discarding the toilet lid, I pull his arms behind his back and bind his wrists together with riot cuffs, then jam the barrel of my .45 into the back of his skull.
“You scream, and I paint the urinal with your brains. Got it?”
“You’re making a big mistake, man,” he says with a groan. “Do you know who I work for?”
“I know who you work for, all right. But you’re the one who made the big mistake.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This is about that two-bit loser?”
“Yeah, the two-bit loser who you killed, asshole,” I say with a bit of a snarl. “And the body you made him dispose of.”
“You can’t pin any of that on me.”
“I don’t have to—I know it was you. I just want to know who helped you.”
Billy laughs. “Think I’m a snitch? You may as well kill me then, but I don’t think you have the balls to.”
I holster my pistol at the small of my back, and drag his big, limp frame into the stall. He tries to resist, but I can tell he’s still weak from the blow to the head. I lift the lid and shove his head into the nasty toilet water; a classic bathroom interrogation move.
After about ten seconds, I pull him out. “I want names, Billy—now!”
“Go fuck yourself.”
I plunge him again and again, each time with less success of extracting any information. Finally I hold him down for good, until the final bubbles of life expel from his lungs, and his body goes complete limp.