THUGLIT Issue One - [31]

“Exactly. Capital offense. On any other night, Izzy just would’ve took that beating. No harm. Free ambulance ride. Stitches and plaster. But soon as a cop sees a guy pummeling another guy with a stop sign, they know they can frame him on some bullshit charge. Bad luck got you four years for assault.”

“And an extra year for destruction of county property.” Violence laughed and gave his buddy a hard slap on the back. “You’re an idiot, Scrote. A straight-up retard. But God love you, you’re always ready to take a buddy’s side. No matter how stupid.”

Violence held up his can, Scrote tapped his against it, and they both downed the remainder of the beers. The clang of empty against empty signaled their need for more.

*****

Violence drives past the FastTrip, but there are no cars parked out front. No sparkly blue pickup, that’s for sure. It’s Saturday night. It’s where Scrote should be. Hell, it’s where Violence should be, drinking and shooting the shit. They never even had to call to meet up. It was their routine, tradition. Now Violence is sure that Scrote is avoiding him. And if Scrote isn’t dead in a ditch, he’s going to wish he was.

Other than drinking with Violence, Scrote only has one other thing in his life. Strippers. But Violence can’t remember the name of the dancer that Scrote is banging. What is it with that idiot and strippers? It’s probably the tits. They all have tits. And that’s a big deal to a guy like Scrote.

Violence can’t even remember her stage name. Always something spelled all squirrelly. He might even know a stripper named Squirrelly. He knows a Kanddee. A Lexxxi with three x’s. And most of the spice rack: Sage, Cayenne, Saffron, Pepper, Cumin, and of course, Nutmeg. Hell, what does it matter? Not like he can look it up in the phone book. But he can head over to Hot Lipps. He knows her by sight, tramp stamp and all. Eventually, Scrote will show up. That’s where the tits are.

Violence smiles as he turns right on the next street, thinking about tits and punishment.

*****

Scrote pulled three bags of Fritos off the chip rack. Violence knocked them out of his hands onto the floor. Neither man bothered to pick them up.

“What was that for?” Scrote asked.

“I ain’t gonna smell Frito breath the rest of the night. Smells like a rendering plant. Might as well fart in my mouth and get it done with.”

“I got to eat. I’m hungry.”

“Jesus Christ.” Violence scanned the store and pointed at a display of cookies. “Grab some Oreos or Chips Ahoy. Anything but Nutter Butters. They’re worse than Fritos.”

“I was more in the mood for savory,” Scrote said with a bit of pout, but he walked to the cookies.

Violence set his two six-packs of tall boys on the counter in front of the bored teenager. “And a pack of Marlboros.”

“You should buy a lottery ticket. I can prove my point,” Scrote yelled out behind him.

“What point?” Violence said, watching his buddy dump an armload of cookies on the counter.

“About good luck and bad luck. I’ll bet if you buy a lottery ticket, you won’t win nothing. Because you got bad luck. Born under a bad sign, like that. If you had good luck, you’d win, right?”

“Not exactly scientifical. One try? That wouldn’t prove diddly-shit, dumbass. Most people don’t win. You saying most people got bad luck.”

“From what I can see? Yeah. The world is mostly bad luck. There’d be more people living in mansions, driving nice cars, if people had good luck. Shit, how many you know that got jobs? Ain’t done time?”

Violence turned to the teenager. “The beer, the cookies, and one of them scratchers. The one with Elvis on it.”

Back at the truck, Violence and Scrote each shotgunned a beer, followed by a beer chaser. Scrote pulled out a sleeve of Oreos and they had a contest to see how many they could fit in their mouth, laughing through the black crumbs.

After he chewed and swallowed, Scrote said, “Aren’t you going to check your ticket?”

Violence shrugged and pulled it out of his pocket. “So if I win a free ticket, does that mean I have good luck?”

“Only if that ticket wins. Money is the scorecard for good luck. More money you got, more good luck,” Scrote said, “but I’m telling you, we’re both cursed, brother. You’ll see.”

Violence dug his fingernail into the lottery ticket and scratched. There were six numbers. He had to match two of them. The most he could win was $50,000 dollars. He scratched them in order.

The first three:

$2.

$100

$10,000

“What if I win two bucks? Barely feels like nothing. Hell, the ticket cost me a dollar. One dollar profit don’t really seem like good luck.”

The second three:

$50

$5

$10,000

“Well, fuck me. I think I won,” Violence said, blowing some of the silver dust off the ticket.

“How much?” Scrote asked, leaning in to take a look at the ticket.

“Ten thousand bucks.”

“Did you have to match two or three?”

“Two. It says right here,” Violence said, pointing at the instructions at the top of the ticket.

“You won,” Scrote said softly.

Violence read the instructions at the top of the ticket two more times. “I just won ten motherfucking grand, you silly son of a bitch. Who’s got bad luck?”