Murder is a Kick
I’m ten feet away when it happens. Wouldn’t believe it otherwise.
I know the guy from O’Malley’s Tavern. Something Frain. Arsehole Frain maybe? The chick? Don’t recognize her, but I’ll never forget her.
The two of them, they get in an argument at the end of the bar. I see ’em through the window. Spills out into the alley where I’m relieving myself. I’m there first, so don’t judge. She says he’s finished drinking. He tells her the remaining eight ounces of his ale say otherwise. She kicks him in the cajones, and he folds like a flip phone.
Then – remember, I have a few drinks in me, but I’m sober now kinda – she leans against the alley wall and takes off her leg. Next thing I know, she’s beating the dude over the head with it. She sports the balance of a gymnast. Relentless as a champ.
I go back inside. She limps past the window. So I finish Frain’s beer. Turns out he’s done drinking, after all. When the cops show up, I say to them what’s a prosthetic leg, never heard a one before. Hey, she’s a looker. And c’mon, she’s available now.
* * *
This is one of two entries based on a true story. The other hasn’t appeared yet. (I haven’t written it yet either.) I’ve changed the names to protect the guilty. I was not the person killed by a prosthetic leg. And my girlfriend when I used to go to O’Malley’s — well, come to think of it, she might be the person in this story. At least she can’t come after me for defamation of character, the person in this story is much nicer than she ever was.