Another public service announcement by Kenny Black: Hey, you may have heard that I’m featured in a new novel by the Rogues Gallery Writers, called “The Method Writers.” Well, now it’s available for order in hardcover edition from the publisher’s website, as well as Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and soon BooksAMillion. You should order it … unless you want Kenny Black showing up at your door.
I wipe the ceramic lid for fingerprints then set it back on the toilet tank. With my switch blade, I cut off the riot cuffs. Billy the Dead sure as hell is heavy, but with some strain, I’m able to heave his big ass up and prop him on the toilet seat. After shutting and locking the stall door, I slide under the bottom of the stall. Hopefully this will buy me enough time to make a conventional exit from the Angry Pig Tavern.
“Why the fuck is this door locked?”
“I don’t know—I didn’t do it.”
The other three idiots from Billy’s crew stumble in behind him. They’re all pretty muscular except for one skinny guy, who looks a little in over his head. Skinny Guy holds a cue as well, but the other two thugs are empty-handed. One has a long shirt and baggy pants and could be packing a pistol. Mr. Clean, wearing a tight black tank top and jeans, has a hunting knife strapped to his belt.
“Where’s Billy?” Mr. Clean asks.
“I don’t know anyone by that name, but someone’s taking a nasty shit in here. Must be your Billy boy.”
“Hey, Billy, you okay in there?” Baggy Pants asks.
“Actually, I have a question for you guys…what happened to Eddie Snead?”
“Wha-why you askin’ about Snead?” Skinny Guy says, slight panic in his eyes.
I grin. “You know plenty.”
Mr. Clean takes a step closer. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Your worst nightmare.”
He grabs hold of my shoulder, so I smash his nose in with my elbow and then easily snatch the pool cue from hands. Baggy Pants is reaching behind his back, so I swing and hit him hard in the temple with the fat end of the cue. He drops to one knee. Other Dude throws a punch, which I barely dodge and counter by ramming the cue into the base of his rib cage, right where the two sides come together. The sound of “Ooooooh!” comes out and he staggers backwards.
Skinny Guy is holding his pool cue like a bat, but is otherwise frozen by fear. A bloody-faced Mr. Clean goes for his knife, so I treat his nutsack like a football on a tee and I take the opening kickoff. Baggy Pants seems to regain control, so I break the pool cue over my knee and do a little Keith Moon number on his face. Other Dude comes at me again, only to receive the same treatment as his friend.
The three muscle heads lie on the floor, either moaning or unconscious. Skinny Guy takes a few test swings; none of them anywhere close to me. I draw my .45 and point it at him.
“Drop the fucking pool cue—you’re coming with me.”