Five Dollar Wrench

RUN

My morning with Doug didn't go as planned.

That's an understatement.

The night before, we were at The Bitter End. He bought both of us a beer. He smiled as I slammed one of them. Then he slammed the other and I smiled too, because I knew the drinks had been switched.

I said, "Let's get out of here," and I talked him into letting me drive, which was crazy on his part. Bro thought he drugged me, yet he let me drive his truck?! Holy hell and what the fuck!

Off we went.

I told him we were headed to a motel, but once the roofies kicked in, it was sleepy time for him. That shit is evil, but he laced the drink, and he unknowingly switched 'em. He drugged himself.

After a quick stop at my place for supplies, I drove Doug to the abandoned warehouse, and I paid a junkie to help drag him inside.

The junkie asked, "Yo, is this guy dead?"

"Here's fifty bucks. Does it matter?"

It did not.

And, obviously, the cash came from Doug's wallet.

The hard part was waiting for Doug to wake up. I needed him to be conscious enough for a conversation. That took a while.

My plan was to scare the holy hell out of him, then call the cops and tell 'em Doug tried to rape me, which, by the way, was the goddamn truth.

I figured I'd wait for Doug to tell the cops I poisoned him. Then I'd hand them the box of Good & Plenty and pop a few in my mouth. It would have been hilarious! It would have made me a legend in this town. People would have told that story for years, and the story would've gotten better every time as they added their own flair.

That's what people do. They add flair to make themselves the star in somebody else's story. And fact becomes fiction as myth becomes legend.

It should have been amazing.

And it would have been amazing, but Doug did something I didn't see coming.

He started to cry.

I told him, "Lose the tears, bro. You're too old for that shit. You know what you did, and there's no undoing it. This is the part where you acknowledge my win. Then you fuck off, knowing the story of your humiliation will be told again and again and again."

But Doug was bawling.

"What the fuck?!" I screamed. "Jesus! Do you have any idea how much of a downer you are? You're ruining my moment!!!"

This wasn't fun anymore, so I came clean.

"Listen, asshole, I didn't poison you. Those 'pills' are candy," I said, as I showed him the box. "GNP? I made that up. They're Good & Plenty licorice candies, and they're tasty. Want one? I'm bettin' you don't."

He turned the crying up a notch. Goddamn. This was no fun at all.

"Oh, hell no, Doug! Don't you dare ruin this for me!!!"

On TV, when the girl gets even, they make it look empowering. In victory, she is strong and wise. And as he sees the error of his ways, he becomes remorseful. On TV, it's always like that. In the movies, too. There's a reason they never show the girl getting stuck with a blubbering Doug. Nobody wants to see that. There's no glory in kicking a guy when he's already been brought down.

"You're supposed to be remorseful, Doug!!! That's what's happening here!!! You did a terrible thing! Now I'm getting even!"

"I know... I'm sorry."

"No!!! Don't you dare use that word! You're not sorry you did it. You're sorry you got caught."

I suddenly realized I was still holding his gun. I'd been swinging it around every time I gestured with my hands. "Oh, stop crying!!! I'm not gonna shoot you. I made sure it's not loaded." That was a lie. I didn't actually know the gun wasn't loaded until he told me, and the fact that I didn't care scared me. "I hate guns. And I hate you."

I needed to put the gun down, because even though it had no bullets, the way it scared him scared me even more.

No guns. No, no. Never again.

"YOU'RE RUINING MY TRIUMPH, DOUG!!! FUUUCK."

I've never been good with tears, especially if I cause them. But this wasn't my fault.

"You caused this, Doug! Fuck this. And fuck you. I was gonna use your phone to call the cops and turn you in for the roofies, but you're not even worth it. So, y'know what? We're done here. I'm gonna untie you, and when I do, I want you to pick up your stuff and run. Run like your feet are on fire. Your truck is outside. RUN."

And that's what I did.

But he didn't.

"I SAID RUN!!!"

But he wouldn't.

"Get the hell out of here Doug!!! RUUUUUNNNNNNUN!!!"

But he couldn't.

Instead, he slowly trudged his way across the room, one defeated footstep after another. And the more he cried, the slower he walked, and the more infuriated I became.

"I!!! TOLD!!! YOU!!! TO!!! GO!!!!!!!!!!"

And he should have, but before he made it to the door, he sat down. He sat on the dirt and crushed glass, on the concrete floor, and he sobbed.

"I don't know why I do it," he said. "I just... need... I know I'm..." And he buried his head in his hands as he continued to cry.

I ran over and dragged him by the collar, pulling him to his feet, and I marched him out the door, shoving him every fucking step of the way to his truck, which I then shoved him into.

"GET IN!!! GET IN!!! GET OUT OF HERE DOUG! GO! GO!!! GO!!!!!"

He finally did. But the bastard drove away almost as slowly as he'd walked.

I'd never seen a vehicle look defeated before.

I won.

So, why was it not enough?

In the distance, I heard the junkie say, "Heyo! He ain't dead!"

No. But I wished he was.