Impeccable Timing (209 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Stagger Lee (View user info) at 2006-11-07 01:02:02 EST
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We turned off the Hume; Pete downshifted and let the car ease gently into fourth. I cracked open a window and cold air flooded over us. It was a quiet, fleeting time of evening; the sun had dropped below the hills to the west, but there was still light hanging low in the sky. Soon the light would be gone.
The car's engine whined as Pete shifted into third, over-revving again. He was never the most graceful of drivers. The road ahead unwound beneath our headlights, appearing out of the dark as the lights pierced the gathering dusk.
"You call that girl from Evan's?" I asked.
Pete chuckled and took a drag on his cigarette.
"Yeah. Never got through. Who needs them, eh?"
I nodded in agreement with him, but said nothing. He was lying, gutless bastard. He was never going to call her; I'd known it since he came up to me at Evan's house, his face flushed from drinking and his eyes aglow, waving the piece of paper with the girl's number scrawled hastily upon it. Pete hasn't got the talent to build on his initial work. He never has.
"She told me something," Pete went on. "She told me she works with comedians a lot, bookings
and that. Know what she said the key to comedy was?"
"I think so," I replied. "It's timing, isn't it?"
"Well, yeah," said Pete. He appeared slightly put out that I had guessed. He wanted to tell me something new "She said that the delivery and material needed to be good, but that good timing was what really sold it."
For a moment neither of us spoke. I watched the bugs appear momentarily in the headlights, before disappearing, impacting on the grill or windshield.
"And that got me thinking," he continued, "That's a lot like what we do. If you screw the timing up, if you don't react fast enough or whatever, you get floored."
"Yeah, I guess." I was doubtful. Pete liked to spout this kind of stuff a little too often for his own good.
A song came on the radio that I hated, and I reached for the dial.
"Hey!" Pete exclaimed, "Don't touch the dial, man. It's my car. You know how I feel about that."
His car was a piece of shit, the touchy bastard. He even sang along to some of the song; disgusting.
We saw the sign, advertising fuel. That was our cue to turn. We headed down a track, the paved road giving way to dirt. The trees never grow that thick out here, and the plains stretched around us, rolling with the hills. Most of the sheep and cattle in the fields were beginning to sleep, laying their heads down into the dry grass. They had no idea what we were doing and they wouldn't have cared.
Over the hill it appeared; a lonely pub, squatting in the middle of the desiccated fields, a couple of faint yellow lights shining from the windows and open door. There was a solitary generator-powered fuel pump out next to the road.
I cracked open the glove compartment and pulled out the two balaclavas, and I handed one to Pete. He pulled it on, rather absent-mindedly and one-handed. It was slightly crooked when he was finished. I put my balaclava on; taking pains to make sure it was straight and then looking at him pointedly. Then I remembered he couldn't read my expression. Fuck it.
Pete pulled the car up a little way back from the pump, and I loaded both our pistols and handed his over. We got out of the car and made our way up the short flight of stairs to the pub's door. Music greeted us as we entered. I began singing along under my breath.
"Oh, sweet nothing...she ain't got nothing at all..."
Inside there were two leathery old guys sitting at the bar, and the bartender himself, a young man who was beginning to push into the low reaches of middle age. The bartender was chopping lemons on the bar, and the old guys were sipping on pints. They looked at us, and at our guns, not with fear, but with curiosity.
"Move it!" Pete snapped, aiming his pistol at the old man closest to us. "Get over to the corner and get down!"
"I just started this beer," the old guy protested.
I stifled a laugh, but Pete was not amused.
"I said go!" he screamed. I imagined veins popping on his temples, safely hidden beneath the balaclava.
Grumbling slightly, the old men stood from their stools and made their way across the bar. The one who had spoken took his beer with him. Pete clenched his fist, practically vibrating with indignation. I bit my lip to hold back from laughing at him. He'd never forgive me.
The bartender set his knife carefully down on the bar, and raised both his hands.
"Come on, boys," he said. "What's this about? We haven't got a lotta cash here, really."
"Whatever you do have will be fine," I said.
"Open up the till," Pete commanded, shifting his aim to the bartender. I still hadn't raised my gun.
The bartender walked the few paces to the till, and cracked it open.
Later, I reflected on what Pete had said about timing, because the old geezer had impeccable timing. If he'd gotten it wrong, Pete would have shot him. He had a window of a few seconds, and just like the stand-up comedy, the difference between those seconds was crucial.
While Pete and I were both distracted by the cash register, he hurled his pint glass across the room, half the beer still in it, and it smacked Pete in the side of the head. Pete dropped to the ground, poleaxed and soaked in beer. The two old men vanished, away out the back far quicker than I would have believed.
When I turned back to the bartender, he was covering me with an antique-looking double-barrelled shotgun. I was disgusted at how easily they'd gotten the drop on Pete.
"Put it down, sonny," the bartender said.
Rather than drop my gun, I dropped myself to the floor and emptied my clip into the wooden bar, kicking up splinters as the bullets crashed through. The bartender yelped like a kicked dog, and collapsed to the floor.
Pete sat up, clutching his head. I gave him my empty pistol and took his gun out of his unresisting hand. I made my way slowly around the bar, cautiously, watching for the bartender. He had dropped the shotgun, and was trying to crawl towards where it had fallen, his face contorted and strained. I saw that I had hit him twice in his left leg, and he was smearing blood across his own floor as he moved.
I rounded the bar and kicked the shotgun away. He groaned. I knelt down beside him.
"No more of that," I said. "That could've gotten ugly. We're just after some cash, man; we didn't come here to hurt people." I raised my voice and called to Pete. "Start the car! I'll grab the cash!"
Pete stood slowly. I pictured how dopey his face probably looked right now under the balaclava. He exited the bar.
And then the silly bastard went for it. He lunged up off the floor, grappling for my pistol. I only just pulled the gun back from his grasp, and he shot out his other hand and pulled off my mask. We stood there looking at each other for just a second, and then I smashed his teeth in with the pistol barrel. He sank back to the floor.
"Why'd you have to go and do that?" I asked. "Stupid, stupid."
I pulled a double handful of money out of the register, stuffing it into my pockets. I took the knife from the bar.
"We wear these masks for a reason, you know."
I knelt down next to him once more. There was already blood on my hand from pistol whipping him, and I'd have to be careful to avoid more of it. I placed the tip of the knife gently in the hollow of his throat. He tried to writhe out from under it. I slammed his head back against the wooden floor with my other hand.
"Please," he said.
I didn't reply.
I closed my eyes so I didn't have to see, and then I leant my full weight on the blade. It went in far too easily. I tried to lean away, but blood got on my hand anyway.
There was no real place to wash up. I did the best I could, wiping my hand on his shirt. I debated briefly about the knife, but I couldn't bring it, not with Pete in the car. I decided to chance it with the fingerprints, and wiped down the handle as thoroughly as possible. I couldn't take too much longer; Pete would get worried and maybe investigate. I didn't want him to see this.
I left the pub. The engine it Pete's car was running. His balaclava was in his lap, and I could see an ugly bruise forming on the side of his head. He still seemed slightly dazed.
I opened the door, careful not to get blood on the car. I sat down shotgun and held my bloody hand out of the window.
There was no sign of the two old men.
"Didn't rough him up too badly, did you?"
"No," I said, "Just shot him in the leg and hit him a couple times. Blood's from his nose."
"Right," said Pete, and pulled off down the road.
"Better stick to the back roads the next couple days," I told him. "Those old geezers will spread the word."
Pete nodded in agreement.
I settled back into the seat. Nothing left now but to put miles between myself and what I'd done.
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