28 August 2011

No, I'm Not Actually A Serial Killer...

"I missed you, Krissy." Said R one day.

I nod and smile. "I can tell. Since you haven't hit me yet. Shitty aim. Are you out of ammo yet?"

R blinks. Then he gets the joke. "Ha. Out of ammo. Yep. I guess I am."

"Right, so then you will have to throw rocks or something at me."

Days later? R brings three rocks to tip me with at the bar.

Weeks later, R calls to go have a beer. He asks if I am bringing rocks with me. I tell him I have giant pockets of rocks. We are going to war, R and I. 

Of course I didn't really bring rocks. R asks me where the rocks have gone.

"Well, I threw them at strangers on my way here."

"Ha! Strangers." Says R. He giggles like a school girl. "Strangers. Why?" He is maybe tipsy. He is maybe 3 to 8 beers ahead of me.

"Releasing some pent up frustrations. You know, like sometimes you are really, really pissed off at your wife? But you certainly can't kill your wife." I pause for dramatic effect. Enjoy the look of absolute confusion on R's face. 
"So, you know, you have to go find a hooker that looks like your wife." Another pause. A drink of beer. A totally lost expression on R's face.
"And then you kill the hooker instead. Because if you really kill your wife, they are going to know it's you, right? But hookers? Could have been anyone, right? So you just kill the hooker that looks like your wife."

R is confused, and maybe disturbed. I pat his shoulder. "No worries, R. There are hardly going to be any hookers walking around that look like you." 

"Wait. Whoa. why are we killing hookers?" D is listening to the exchange. D is not tipsy. 

"Because D. We can't really kill people we know." I tell him. Straight faced. No smile. Smirk visible in my eyes.

D? Gets the joke. He plays along. He smirks with his eyes too. "Oh. Right. Cause hookers are mostly dead on the inside anyway." 

D and I are not smiling. Mentally? We are giving each other high fives. And possibly giggling like school girls. 

R shakes his head slightly. Trying, I think, to clear the beer fog or the conversation from his brain. 
"Ah. Well." Says R " I have to get going. Gotta load in Ohio in the morning." 

I nod. "I hate Ohio. Spent a week there one afternoon." [Stole that from my Daddy, who stole it from somewhere.]

"A week?" Says R. "In the afternoon?"

R blinks again. Hugs me. Says goodbye and leaves the bar, head still shaking slightly. I suspect R leaves the bar feeling decidedly more normal than when he had arrived.


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