Mystery and Crime Fiction posted November 22, 2015

This work has reached the exceptional level
People are not always what they appear to be

The Drunk

by Brett Matthew West

The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
That hulk of a man, with a beer in his hand, looked like a drunken fool. And, my mommy did not trust him, either. Why should she?

Mommy quickly realized he was more than a few bricks shy of a load, loud, and obnoxious. He also had a bad reputation in town for being the meanest dog in the pound.

However, mommy did not care anything about all that. Let him be a bag of chips too. Mommy's only concern was for me. The two week old miracle of love she called T.J.

The initials stood for nothing. Mommy just liked the sound of them together. And, so, without any further to do, on November 7, 2015 I joined the world as T.J. Bell.

This is my story. Sad though it may be. I will right now, very seriously, tell you that when my mommy kicks your ass you know that it has been royally kicked.

Want to know more? Then, read on.

Maybe my mommy should not have had me in a bar at such a tender age. But, hey, you have to live life as it comes. Know what I mean, hombre?

We were at the Red Moon Saloon. Mommy was supposed to meet the one night stand that was my biological sperm donor. Mommy went there anticipating receiving money from this joker for my wellbeing.

Good thing I did not drive a Cadillac, cause, as it turned out, the dude did not have one red cent to his name. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Nothing.

I am amazed mommy even knew the cowlick's name.

Do not get me wrong here, partner. Mommy was not what you call a "loose" woman. She had encountered this WRONG AS RAIN character, who filled her noggin with all kinds of pretty words.

You know the kind I am talking about here. The ones all women love to hear. And, this daffy ding-a-ling was real good at plying his trade, too.

It did not take my mommy very long to figure out how far in the toilet she was.

Being young, and all alone, mommy gave into lustful desire. Nine months later, unplanned, I popped out on the scene ready to take on the world, and all its shining glory.

I almost did not get the chance. They say turn your head for an instant. That is all you have to do.

"You pathetic piece of crap!" I heard mommy say when the other half of my DNA contribution informed her he was broke, and there would be no cash cow coming forward to help tend to my many needs like diapers, formula, and clothes.

I thought to myself, "Wonder if that means I can grow up to be a little nudist?"

Then, on second thought, I did not think so. Mommy would not have allowed that to happen. No way, Amigo.

I smiled with glee when mommy poured the remaining contents of his partially finished gin and tonic over the top of his shoulder-length, light-colored hair.

Then, mommy reached back as far as she could, and she slapped him as hard as she could full force. Right across his smug face.

My mommy left the entire imprint of her hand flush on the widget's skin.

Everybody in the bar observed this scene, and, oh man, you could hear them laughing out loud for miles around. Of course, the Mister Adonis wannabe did not like it one teeny weeny little bit.

Aw, poor baby.

And, I am thinking, "You go mommy!"

She done slapped the snot right on out of that bugger.

When mommy turned back around I was gone. You know, like missing. Adios. Arrivederci. See you later alligator! And, I should not have been. This caused complete pandemonium in the bar.

They say, "Hell hath no fury like a mommy scorned," or something of that crazy, bizarre nature.

Panic, fear, and top of the lungs screaming gripped my mommy.

And, they wonder where I get my patented roaring vocalization talents from?

Mommy frantically searched the bar high and low for my whereabouts. She knew it was physically impossible for me to just sprout wings from out of the clear, blue, sky and fly away like a bird soaring off to Neverland.

Nobody in the place claimed to witness my ultra-mysterious, Houdini, disappearing routine despite mommy's desperate pleas.

And, I assure you, I was not just out working on the railroad all the live long day either.

Not the patrons. Not the barkeep. Not even the pretty all-lined-up-in-a-row barmaids, donning their black and white checkerboard aprons, had seen hide, nor hair, of me.

Mommy did not know what to do. She collapsed onto the top of a stool at the end of the bar, with the back of her hand pressed hard against her forehead in utter despair.

And, I mean to tell you she was not having no sunstroke.

Never in her life had mommy ever felt the wave of dread that settled over her. At wits end, she did not know which way to turn.

Mommy extracted her cellphone from her purse. In desperation, she started to call the local County Mounties for assistance. She sure was not getting it from anyone else.

The big drunk slowly looked up from the beer he had been nursing.

"I'll help you find your little boy," he guaranteed my mommy.

I don't know what possessed her to say the words, but mommy replied with, "I ain't got no money."

"My fee," the drunk politely told her, "is one dollar. Payable upon delivery."

Mommy wanted to tell him to butt out of her affairs. But, something in the soothing way the drunk conversed with her persuaded her to let him in.

"His name is T.J.," mommy responded trying to get herself together.

She fumbled around in her purse, and finally produced a polaroid snapshot of me.

"This is the only picture I have of my son," mommy told him.

The drunk took the picture. He placed it face up on the bar in front of him. Then, he reached into the pocket of the jacket he was wearing.

Mommy was not sure what he planned to do next.

Producing a shiny new pair of brass knuckles the drunk reassuringly told her, "I always get exactly what I want. This time will be no different."

The drunk rose up off his barstool. My God, that man was tall!

He faced the patrons in the crowded bar, and with a voice as loud as thunder crashing during a violent storm, said, "This lady's son was in this room a moment ago, and I know somebody saw something."

The drunk placed his humongous, left, meathook hand firmly on the shoulder of a man, not half as big as he was, who's only grievance error was being seated next to where the drunk stood.

Continuing his threatening comments, the drunk sternly warned all those in attendance, "If I have to beat everybody in this joint to a bloody pulp, to get the answer I want, that is exactly what I will do!"

Terror shone forth on the face of the hapless patron who was about to be the drunk's first victim.

Desperately pleading for his life, he begged the drunk, "Please don't hurt me, Sir!"

"Someone gonna flap off at the gums, or does this putrid punk get what's coming to him?" the drunk asked in terms that grabbed the attention of all the other patrons in the place.

The drunk paused, " Remember," he reminded all of them, "this slimy weasel gets his first. Then, I keep going right down the line till one of you fleabags fesses up!'

There was stone silence.

With his hand cocked back, the drunk looked at the terrified man he clutched in his hand.

"Hate it for you!" was all he said.

Before the drunk could deliver the blow, that certainly would have killed the coward he was about to make an example out of, the bartender, who was wiping dry the inside of a whiskey glass with a white dish towel, yelled, "Jedediah, don't!"

This caused the drunk to momentarily glance in the direction of the bartender, who in turn, flashed him a slight wink, and a nod of his head. The drunk caught the bartender's message and he released the patron he was about to pulverize.

The man sank to the floor in mortal fear. A leaf in a tornado had nothing on him when it came to how badly he was trembling.

"Here. Tomorrow night," the drunk said to my mommy as he rapidly hurried out the door in hot pursuit of the man the bartender had clued him in about.

Mommy, not about to have any part of being omitted from the chase, raced out the door behind the drunk.

"Typical hard-headed woman," the drunk thought to himself, but did not say the words.

The brass knuckles still in place on his hand, the drunk rounded the corner of the bar in the direction his quarry had departed. Quickly, he scanned the scene.

He found who he was looking for walking at a brisk pace up the sidewalk leading away from the bar. The man was moving way too slowly.

In no time, the drunk grabbed his arm from behind. He spun the man around to see his face. It was George Morgan. An ex-con the drunk knew well.

"Where's the baby, Morgan?" the drunk demanded to know.

George Morgan fancied himself a bad-ass. He had served a long stretch of hard time in the state's most notorious prison for a wide array of violent crimes including felonious assault on a law enforcement officer, a series of armed bank robberies, and attempted murder of a chickadee he once dated."

But, like everybody else in town, George Morgan knew the drunk was not somebody to screw around with. And, that he would just as soon see you dead than have to hurt his eyeballs looking at you.

Hesitantly, Morgan told the drunk, "I gave the monkey to Mike Miller."

Morgan knew it did not matter much what he said. The drunk would not be pleased.

The drunk angrily tightened his firm grip on Morgan's arm, causing stabbing pain to radiate throughout his body.

"I did not ask you who you gave the baby to, Morgan!" the drunk reiterated, then repeated his original question by saying, "I asked you where's the baby?"

"Miller knows some people on the Black Market who wanted a kid," Morgan uneasily responded, "said they'd cough up ten G's for one."

"Know this!" was all the drunk said.

He smashed Morgan hard in the middle of his unshaven face with his fist that contained the brass knuckles. The blow sent Morgan straight to the Promised Land.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, my mommy plugged Morgan with a round fired from her snub-nosed .45, and told him to, "Roast in Hell!"

The drunk seemed surprised by mommy's actions, but, extremely pleased. Oh, so very pleased.

Approvingly, the drunk told my mommy, "Nice shot."

Then he said, "This is going to get dangerous. Go home, and meet me back at the Red Moon at six o' clock tomorrow night."

With a smile on his taunt face, he vowed, "I'll have your baby. You just make doubly damn sure you have my dollar."

Mike Miller was a Nervous Nelly. Even the wind blowing through the canopy of trees in a serene forest frightened him.

Although ten thousand dollars can make many a man perform strange feats, the drunk wondered how on earth this misappropriated misfit could have gotten entangled into this baby kidnapping dilemma?

Two blocks north, and four blocks east of the Red Moon Saloon, buried deep inside one of the town's worst tenements, the drunk knew precisely where to find Miller's hole in the wall.

Miller knew he was no match for the drunk. He only hoped his complete cooperation would allow the drunk to find enough compassion in his black heart to permit him to keep breathing air. Somehow, Miller seriously doubted it would.

When confronted by the drunk, Miller unhesitantly confessed, feebly stating, "It was a money thing. That's all. Ten grand would get me as far out of this two-bit town as a man could get."

The drunk was not having it. All he cared about was my safe return back to my mommy. And, he did not give one iota what bridge he had to cross to get me there.

"You always were worthless, Miller," the drunk told the hapless man.

Then, he stated, "You never could keep your head out of where the sun don't shine."

Cowering in front of the drunk, Miller's knees were knocking, and his spindly legs were shaking uncontrollably. He wondered what the drunk was going to do to him?

Whatever his fate, he knew it would not be pleasant. And, it was not.

The more I learned about this drunk the more I wished he could be my daddy instead of the L-O-S-E-R that was.

But, seriously. Was I only worth one measly little dollar to him?



Mommy walked into the Red Moon Saloon the next night, precisely at six o'clock on the p.m. side of the dial. Right on time. I like punctuality.

The drunk was seated on his stool, drowning in his beer. And, there on the bar in front of him was her little bundle of joy.

Safely tucked away in my bassinet, looking like I did not have a care in the world, the drunk and I were becoming very good friends.

He told me all about himself. I now knew he was a Navy Seal, a decorated war hero from Desert Storm, and a real good actor.

See, everybody in Meredian, the town we lived in, thought he was good for nothing.

Turns out he would come into the bar and nurse the same drink all night long. He only made it look like he drank like a fish.

Oscar-winning material if there ever was any.

Having lost his wife, and a little girl named Tabitha, in a car crash where he used to live before moving to Meredian, he wiled away his time remembering them, and mourning their loss.

A peace loving man, he had shown up one night in the bar, and kept to himself. He said nothing most of the time to anybody else, and let the rumors about him abound.

Mommy would really like Jedediah Russell, if she only took the time to get to know him as I had.

Maybe I should fix them up?

Holding four quarters in her hand to pay the drunk for services rendered, mommy approached us. She was so relieved I was being returned back to her where I belonged. And, that the long ordeal was finally over.

The true gentleman that he was, the drunk stood up to greet her. His back to the other patrons in the bar.

From out of nowhere, the maniac that was my sperm donor, extracted a knife from his boot. He gave it a fling half way across the bar. Right in the middle of the drunk's back.

Jedediah Russell fell to the floor...dead.

Mommy screamed.

She pulled the .45 out of her purse, and wasted the man who had killed him, with a well placed shot between his beady eyes.

I could not be happier mommy had done that.

Nothing better had ever happened to anyone else before.

Mommy grabbed my bassinet in her right hand.

And, with the onlookers in the place staring in disbelief of the events that had just transpired, calmly walked out the door.

@Copyrighted November 22, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, or its storyline, may be reproduced in any manner without the written approval of the copyright holder


First impressions of people are not always correct.

Some times they do actually surprise you by who they turn out to be.

Contemplation, by janmc56, was selected to compliment my story.

So, thanks janmc56 for the use of your picture.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

Save to Bookcase Promote This Share or Bookmark
Print It View Reviews

You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.

© Copyright 2018. Brett Matthew West All rights reserved. Registered copyright with FanStory.
Brett Matthew West has granted, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.