Page 1 of StoryTeller's Tale

PROLOGUE

“Hey, Prospect!” Rat roars out and beckons me over. “You tell it,” he instructs. He gives Beard such a nudge it almost pushes him off the couch while simultaneously saying, “You’d fuck it up, Brother.”

Unconcerned, Beard shrugs, repositions himself, then leans back and raises his beer bottle as a signal for me to go ahead.

Trying to suppress my grin and keep my expression serious, I widen my stance, clasp my hands behind my back, and begin, “It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, sun glinting off the chrome of our Harleys. The air was tinged by the scent of a wildfire. In the distance, a plume of smoke could be seen, but the news was that it was under containment.”

Rat interrupts, “Beard wanted some new aftershave or such shit—”

I wait for the roars of laughter to fade and for the man with the waist-length beard to survive another of Rat’s violent nudges. Then, allowing my lips only the faintest twitch, get back to my retelling.

“We parked up the bikes, me, obviously, being told to stand guard while Beard went inside and restocked with extra small condoms—”

“Thought Rat said it was aftershave?” Pothead pulls up a chair and plants his ass. Glancing around, I see he’s not the only one who’s drawn closer.

“Poetic licence.” I wink. “Anyway—”

“So what was it?” Bull approaches. “Condoms or…?”

Beard sits up straight. “Does it fuckin’ matter? What happened was—”

“Nah, let him tell it,” Prez, approaching, drawls, and sits on the arm of the couch. “Carry on, Prospect.”

I suppress another twitch of my lips. “As I said, the sun was beating down, warming the day, and presumably heating some tempers. As I stood with one eye on our bikes, I watched Beard exit the store with a package, and he was followed by two elderly men.”

Beard snorts and shakes his head as he remembers. “They were cursing up a storm—”

“Shush!” He’s admonished from all sides, glared at, then the attention returns to me.

Schooling my features, I recommence. “One man was leaning on a Zimmer frame, one using a walking stick. As they walked out, their words carried clearly. ‘Motherfucker’, one shouted. ‘You goddamn son of a goat,’ yelled the other.”

“They were quite inventive,” Beard interrupts again.

I nod. “Yeah, I was particularly impressed by ‘your mother sucked donkey’s balls and took it up the ass.’”

Chuckles of laughter come from my audience, which again seems to have expanded.

“It went from verbal to physical in the blink of an eye. The dude with the stick brandished it like a sword. He was blocked by the frame being used as a shield. The moves started to get quite impressive, as though they were ninety-year-old ninjas, both trying to get hits in, and both staggering from the effort. It wasn’t clear which one of them was winning, when this old broad comes tearing out of the store and starts beating both men with her purse.”

I use a falsetto. “‘You worthless motherfuckers. You ain’t even got dicks long enough to fuckin’ measure anymore.’” Guffaws sound as I return to my normal voice. “Mothers covered their kids’ ears, but no one intervened to separate them. We were all watching the free entertainment.” I grin, thinking back, seeing the fighting trio in my mind. “Employees came out of the store and tried to separate them, but punches, sticks and purses were flying. A man in a suit got caught in the nose or something, and blood was flowing. He tried to restrain the old bitch, but that got the men joining sides, and both started attacking him.” I pause, seeing my audience is rapt.

“It was a beautiful day,” I repeat. “Sun blazing down, peace interrupted by the sound of sirens.”

“They got arrested?” Rat asks.

“Wait for the punchline,” Beard warns him.

Chuckling, I shake my head. “Nah, the store manager, the guy in the suit, decided not to press charges. It turns out the elderly trio were a ménage à trois, and the fucker with the Zimmer frame had been arguing it was his turn tonight.”

There were snorts all around. Then Prez points his finger at me. “You’re making that bit up.”

“Makes for a better story,” I respond, unrepentant.

Beard sighs and rolls his eyes. “Should have listened to me. All I would have said was ‘we were late as there were these three old fuckers fighting outside the store.’”

Rat punches his arm. “Yeah, but we like how he tells them.”

Prez stands, grimaces as though he’s wasted moments of his valuable time, then tilts his head as he looks at me. “You ever get patched in, Prospect. Your handle’s going to be StoryTeller.”

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