Ten point Six: Perpendicular Parking

A short piece this week.--C.T.

I pull into the parking spot, fully aware that Tank Daddy is watching me from his Pontiac down the street. I can’t be sure, but I think his engine is running. Apparently, they have understood my answer to their gold-grilled message.

I hold my truck with the parking break, and start to step out with my left foot. Tank Daddy burns out and pulls his car behind me. If he wasn’t so anxious, he might have seen my exhaust smoke, but he is and he doesn’t. As I throw myself back in, I see the glint of a steel gun barrel and the crack of a shot. A little zip goes by me and lodges in parts unknown. My right hand slams the shifter into reverse, and my right foot buries the accelerator. The drive way is on a bit of an up-slant, so my rear bumper connects solidly with his left fender. The diesel engine’s massive torque squeals the tires. Rubber burns and metal crumples. My truck grinds his car ninety degrees. Tank Daddy’s pistol clatters to the black-top, and he’s half hanging out of his window. Parking break back on, I’m out of the truck and in Tank Daddy’s face. He’s still reaching for pistol, stupidly, and trying to fumble open the door. I put an elbow in his face and follow with an exploding uppercut. Tank Daddy’s head bounces off the windows frame, and he’s bleeding from his mouth and scalp. I open the car door and slam his head in it several times.

I’m not really interested in killing Tank Daddy, though the damage to a lesser man’s head might have been fatal. I have a sense that Tank Daddy will recover. In a weird way, I kind of like him, his attempt on my life not withstanding. I collect his pistol, pleased that my little arsenal is growing one untraceable weapon at a time. I then re-park my truck, push Tank Daddy over to the passenger seat, and take off in his car. I might be able to sneak up on one more target for the night.