It could be a true story, semi fictional or something I listened to whacked out on caffeine.
"Who didn't grow up in a dysfunctional home? Who didn't have it tough growing up? These people need to suck it up and deal with it, this is life" she drones. I can feel my jaw clench and in some I wish this was a cartoon / or a graphic novel so I could stroll over there and jam the barrel of my .357 down a throat that hasn't seen anything but a golden spoon in some time. I picture the heroes, the guys she is talking with, stepping to me and with my other hand, I pump off 4 rounds and they're both dead before they hit the floor.
I can see fear in the bitch's eyes and the odor of fear is pungent as it runs down her leg. Her much younger and reasonably attractive friend makes the mistake of pulling her cell phone out of her $400 purse. A pistol whip later and she is unconscious and I am focused on the matter at hand, the whore with the big mouth. She trembles awaiting her fate.
"You think you know it all, don't you? You think your opinion is law and that everyone should thank you for it." The words pour out of my mouth, fluid like Sunday morning flapjack syrup. She's dumber than I thought, shaking her head in a "no" motion disagreeing with me as if I give two shits as to what she has to say. "Bitch, what you know about dysfunction wouldn't fill a thimble" She shakes her head again and I withdraw my pistol long enough to slap her across the face. I jam the gun back into her mouth just as quickly as I took it out. I stifle a gag at the thought of blood and broken teeth running down my throat. It repulses me but that's the least of her worries at this point.
I'm gonna start in on her again and realize the two kids behind the counter haven't moved, blinked or taken a breath in about five minutes. "Don't worry," I growl "you guys are fine, just keep your fucking mouth shut." Whore on the floor begins to moan and not in that good way. If there was not a hand cannon firmly implanted in her oral cavity, I imagine her saying something to the effect of, "please...Please...PLEASE!" Grabbing the back of her head like a porn star, I pull myself in close to her. She tries to recoil from my loving embrace but there is nowhere to go. I'm sure the stench from my steady diet of hot coffee and tuna sandwiches is too much for her. She gags, coughs and gasps as flecks of blood cover my face. Now, I'm pissed.
Now you listen and you listen good. Dysfunction is my business and business is good. Maybe you think you had it rough cause you’ve had to work for a living or cause dad tuned you up a bit the first and more importantly last time you brought a black guy home. Let me tell you something girlie, every morning, including tomorrow- you should get down on your knees and thank the blind-eyed god above for your “rough life.” Her eyes were wide as sauces and tears screamed down her cheeks at an even pace. She squirmed and squealed like an animal taking its last walk.
“How about Daddy coming into your room every day, night or whenever he had a free moment to show you how much he, “loved you.” “How about ten years of that, is that dysfunctional enough for you?” “Would someone need to suck it up and just deal with that or does that meet your standards? How about step-mom coming home so high on junk, she cant stop her new boyfriend from making your little brothers fuck each other, is that dysfunctional enough? Or does a boy who spills milk on a rug, deserve to be beat unconscious and locked in a closet cause mom and “Gary” are too busy to “deal with it?” “Maybe these fucking spoiled brats just need to stop crying and suck it up, huh?”
They’d trade lives with you for five minutes and going to sit here and pontificate about how hard you had it? Not on my watch. You’d better hope to god you never see me again, cause if you do, it’ll be the last thing you see. Start thinking about people less fortunate than yourself, let me help.” With that I took the .357 out of her mouth and did enough damage to her right foot that it would have scared a hungry dog away. There were dark spots on the java jockeys cargo pants where the piss was welling up. I put my guns away and grabbed several pounds of Kona beans. I tried not to get blood on the fifty I pulled from my wallet as I tossed it on the counter. “I probably won’t be in for awhile, Wendy.” The glaze over her eyes was one world class pastry chefs would never achieve. “Do me one favor, call