“Hey, man,” he says to me immediately.
I reach into the back of my truck and find a crowbar. The dealer’s fake smile fades.
“Now wait.”
“You’re in White Horse,” I explain while walking to him and swinging the crowbar.
The metal hits his kneecap, and he drops to the ground.
“Pick him back up,” I tell Joe and Greg.
They grin at my instructions. These losers love beating on people. While I don’t particularly enjoy hurting people, I relish instilling fear in my enemies. This guy will cry to his sheriff boss about what a scary fuck I am. He’ll also share his horror story at all of the Common Bend shitholes. The locals will claim I’m crazy or evil. Whatever they say, their fear translates into staying the fuck out of my territory. If people in White Horse want their drugs, they can drive ten minutes to Common Bend and buy it there.
The crowbar makes quick work of the wailing fuck. He begs first before having a delusional moment where he threatens me with payback. I nail him in the ass for that bullshit and likely break his tailbone. Ass injuries are surprisingly bothersome, and I smile at the thought of him limping around Common Bend. Whenever people ask what happened, he’ll share my evil deeds. I look forward to my legend growing.
Joe and Greg dump the dealer back in Common Bend while I drive home. On the way, I pick up fast food for Nightmare and me. I also call the new sheriff in Common Bend.
Sheriff Carter is a whipped monkey. He takes his orders from a motorcycle club out of Kentucky. The last sheriff pushed back against the Reapers and their leader, Cooper Johansson, and he’s a dead man walking now. The better-behaved Carter plans to remain alive and well.
“You need to keep your people on tighter leashes,” I bark as soon as Carter answers.
“I don’t…”
“You will. If I find your people peddling their shit on my streets again, I’ll have a conversation with Johansson. I don’t mind if he sends his guys down here to look around. How about you, asshole? Are you okay with your boss checking up on you?”
I don’t wait for Carter to answer. Hanging up, I order my burgers and fries before heading home.
My house is my sanctuary. Sounds like a pussy thing to say, but I love my damn house. No one is allowed to visit. Even my dad doesn’t come over. Not when he’s always covered in cat hair, and Nightmare eats cats. Well, I’ve never actually seen my dog eat a cat, but I’ve seen him chase one with his mouth hanging open. I assume if the big bastard caught the furball he’d have made it a meal.
A maid cleans the place every other day. A gardener keeps the yard perfect. My house isn’t the nicest in town, but it’s built to fit me and only me.
The fence isn’t a delicate iron-rod like my neighbors’, but a thick, concrete mass capable of withstanding a car bomb. The style of the house is considered mid-century modern apparently. I’ve always preferred hard edges. As a kid, I enjoyed playing with blocks. That’s how my house feels - a well-built row of tall blocks with sharp lines.
In my house, I never have to duck. I can enter my shower without squeezing through the door. I’m able to stretch out in my bathtub. Everything fits a man of my size. The house is manly as fuck too. I like dark wood. I like dark colors. I like leather furniture. I hate light and airy. This house looks like me, and I hear it scares the local kids. This idea makes me smile.
Nightmare meets me at the garage door. He has the run of the place while I’m gone. Through his giant-sized doggy door, he can go outside to do his business. Mostly he hangs out inside and owns the place.
My dog is Leonburger breed and huge like me. He scares the shit out of everyone even though the dumbass hunts squirrels rather than burglars. If someone broke into the house, he would watch them take all our shit. Well, assuming the asshole didn’t sleep through it.
Nightmare looks like his name, but he’s a softie unlike me. The dog follows me from the kitchen to the massive living room where I turn on the massive wall-mounted TV. I dump his burger and fries on a plate on the floor and then dig into my meal.
After searching my DVR, I settle on an episode of the survivalist show Alone. Nightmare finishes his meal and jumps on the expansive sectional couch. He has his spot, and I have mine, and it’s been this way for a decade.
“New assistant started today,” I tell the dog.
He looks at me with his brown eyes, and I wonder what he imagines I said. My guess is something about food. Only a few things perk him up lately. Food, squirrels, and food.
“She’s a fucking bossy bitch,” I say with my mouth full. “I like her. She might work out.”