A Short Story
Good Guys
August 22, 2023
Read time: 5 minutes
TLDR:
A Mexican standoff
Somewhere in the Mexican desert, there was a child, a blonde, a G.I., and a wrestler. They were fighting in the dirt. Apparently, these people thought it would be a good idea to air their grievances all night long. They were tired. The sun did not care and continued to rise in the sky.
A rattlesnake hissed in the dirt.
The locals in the nearest town five miles away were getting ready for church.
Under the moon, these four strangers felt the whiplash that is time beat between their eardrums. If they weren’t sweating, they weren’t alive. And it looked like none of them might be alive by the time the sun rose.
In the blonde’s hand, the G.I.’s and the wrestler’s too, each of them brandished metallic death. .357 magnums. Pistols. Chewing tobacco. Hard lives met here. The fainting feeling of night turning into day was in each of them.
The child’s face was in the dirt.
Their guns were loaded.
They pointed them at each other.
The blonde pointed her gun at the G.I. Then the wrestler. Then back at the G.I.
The G.I. pointed his gun at the wrestler.
And the wrestler pointed their gun right back at the child.
Meanwhile, the wrestler and the G.I. were barking at each other.
“I swear to you. I swear—”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“You give that kid a chance at life I swear to you—I swear—”
“No-no-no-no-no-no-no no way, uh-uh, not gonna happen. Not till boss gets here.”
***
The heavies were on their way.
In the distance, a couple of cars were coming from the north bringing guns, cash, and shovels. To them, there was only one way this whole thing was going to go down.
***
“You touch that kid,” said the G.I. “I don’t care how far deep they put the bodies, I’ll kill ya, I’ll really kill ya. Are you out of your mind?”
“Are you out of your mind, kid?”
“Kid?”
“What is your job, lieutenant?”
“Huh?”
“What is your job?”
“What does any of that matter right now?”
The G.I. gripped his pistol tighter. The blonde moved closer to the kid. The wrestler cocked his gun.
“Move another inch blondie. Move another inch! I’ll blast you, son! You hear me?! Blood! I want blood, son! Move another inch! Move another inch!”
The blonde felt the piercing fear. She stopped dead in her tracks. Her hands shook. The wrestler smiled and pointed his gun at the G.I.
“What. Is. Your. Job. Lieutenant?” asked the wrestler.
The G.I. looked at him with death in his eyes.
“Let me tell you something,” said the wrestler, “cause I haven’t met you until the last twenty-four hours of daylight picking you up in a van at the border and driving to the middle of Timbuktu trying to make sense of the whole thing. I don’t know you. Not really anyway. I don’t know your friends, your family, and I sure don’t know how you know the boss-man. But here’s what I do know, I know what my job is. And my job is to put this kid’s head in the dirt. Sure, you were supposed to be here. But I figured, ‘Hey, let me shake a fella’s hand, hop in the car, and move bodies.’ Ha-ha. Jolly good time. Figure I’ll see a bag of cash by the time we’re back in San Diego. Yeah, I didn’t know little-miss-gorgeous was gonna be here. But here we are. Anyway, boss-man shows up and sees you pointing a pistol at me…”
The wrestler paused and smiled.
The wrestler went on, “You know, I don’t care to go on. I know my job, big dawg. I. Know. My. Job. What’s yours, lieutenant? You wanna be a good guy? Go on! Hitch a ride to Tijuana and get your haircut? Get your mind straight, boy!”
They clicked the hammer on their guns.
In the distance, you could hear the cavalry coming. Two cars, filled with the boss and his heavies, were coming. The rattlesnakes kept hissing. Time kept slipping.
“What’s it gonna be, huh?”
***
“Tommy!” yelled Tommy’s mom.
“Tommy!” yelled Tommy’s mom again.
“TOMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!” she yelled once more.
“Time for dinner, Tommy!”
Little Tommy lost his train of thought. “Okay!” he yelled to his mom. And he dropped his G.I. Joe doll, his Undertaker action figure, his sister’s Barbie doll, and his Cabbage Patch Kid. Tommy went off to dinner and thoughts raced in his head. “Who was going to survive?” he thought.
Time for a Joke:
Why aren't dogs good dancers?
Because they have two left feet!