Bobby's Desires

Scott's method of dealing with depression was beer. Ice cold, dripping wet, straight from the bottle beer. To get it inside him as quickly as possible, he went to Bobby's Desires near his apartment. Sitting on the same squeaky bar stool, he stared forward, imbibing at a rate of about three gulps per minute.

Working on his fifth beer, the tipping point had arrived between deep or numb unhappiness. Milking it from here on out could be a challenge. But Scott needed to slow it down. Crawling home wasn't fun. Furthermore, drinking on Tuesday meant he needed to be extra careful. Getting to work by six is hard enough. Hung over while working at the Caterpillar plant's den of noise equated to hell.

The local watering hole named "Bobby's Desires" has a strange name, thought Scott. One pool table, a few flat screens, and lots of beer. No live bands, and except for an occasional idiot playing the jukebox, he could drink in peace. It was quiet for a bar. Scott liked that. He was close enough that he could stumble to his one-bedroom apartment without driving. Scott didn't want to do anything else but drink.

Usually, just locals came into Bobby's, though a new face came in ever so often. One new face, which at first sight he despised, turned into a regular named Sara. Scott remembered the first time this loud unwanted annoyance entered the joint. He didn't like her being there and hoped this would be a one-time visitor. Her nightly loud roaring laughter was ruining it for him. However, over time, she became a local that he liked.

The night Scott first talked to Sara had been a case of unwanted dialog. Sitting on his barstool, ready to begin his nightly five- to ten-beer limit, Scott heard her cackling. It came from the pool table. Rotating around, he saw the red-haired, obese, refrigerator-shaped woman vigorously stroking blue chalk on the tip of her cue stick.

It wasn't a soft girlish giggle but a full-body man-like chortle. The loudness got Scott's attention. He had been able to ignore her, but this time he couldn't. He didn't want to get caught staring. But, when he glanced her way, she stared back at the same instant he tried to look away.

Scott hoped that would be the end of it. But he was mistaken. After his third beer, Scott needed to pee. When he returned, Sara sat perched on his bar stool. Rather than speaking, he moved down two bar stools.

Quickly, Sara slid next to him. He heard the stool cushion exhale with her added weight. She rasped, "Hey shithead, why didn't you tell me to get off your stool?"

Stunned and bothered, Scott muttered, "Name isn't on it."

Looking straight ahead while sipping his beer, he could feel her staring. After a lengthy silence, she said, "Are you always such a fucking wimp?"

Despondent, Scott wasn't going to get angry over a barstool. He just wanted to be left alone. Scott said, "Scuse me?"

"You heard me, dipshit."

Avoiding eye contact, Scott said, "Where I sit isn't that important."

"Hell, if that's so, I've seen you on that barstool every night for the past two weeks. Don't tell me it means nothing."

"Okay, you're right. Consider it my gift to you." Scott didn't want to talk to her.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Smart Ass."

Again, Scott didn't react. Toning it down, she smiled and said, "What's your name?"

Their first encounter didn't last long after Sara introduced herself. While they were not instant friends, he began to confide in her almost every night. Sara’s nature reminded him of his mother. Scott wasn’t sure if he just needed verbal abuse or a masochistic mother figure. Or maybe it was a combination of both kinds of abuse. Scott’s self-loathing and low self-esteem made Sara the perfect partner for his depression.

###

Scott considered himself a nice guy. Though quiet, most people liked him. All his friends at work tried to get him out of the funk. Sara differed from his other friends. He figured it was meeting at Bobby's that made her so freaking pushy. She was just the type of person he didn't want interfering with his depression. Though she usually talked abusively, Sara did seem to be a bit cathartic. Maybe it was some form of twisted tough love, he thought.

Tonight Scott started the conversation by saying, "I suck at life."

He'd known her for about a month. She was raucous while funny—a definite contrast to his laid-back, soft demeanor.

Scott said, "Not letting my son down is the only thing that keeps me going."

Before taking a big swig of his golden Corona, he said, "I don't drink that lite 'shit.'"

Sara told him she was jealous that he could drink anything without getting fat. Perhaps to get back at him, she said, "As usual, you big pussy, you're having a pity party."

Not listening, Scott said, "I'm depressed, and my job sucks.” Shrugging his shoulders, he added, "I'm forty and find myself not wanting to do anything.” Staring at his beer, he murmured, "I sure wish I could have a do-over."

Sara's laughter turned into a snort. "There's a fat chance of that happening."

Ignoring her, Scott said, "Mama wanted me to go to med school. Instead, I preferred drugs and booze to studying. Now, I have a shit job, and I'm about to get a divorce from my cheating wife."

Pausing for a swig, Scott said, "Signing those papers will sum it up pretty well."

Sara became relentless at trying to cheer him up in a sarcastic way. Over fifty and pushing three hundred pounds, there was no sexual desire between them. He could tell the lack of sexual attraction was mutual. He first thought her lack of interest could've been why he let her into his world. But deep down, he knew his wimpy ass was the reason they became friends. She seemed to like to abuse him.

"Hey, dumbass, you really are tiresome. What's wrong?" Scott knew she could tell he was having a particularly rough night. He was drinking faster than usual and her words seemed snarkier than usual.

"I'm just tired of living."

"Why? You got a lot going for you. You're just too stupid to realize it."

"Other than Billy, I don't have anything."

"That should be enough." She'd heard about his son almost every night since they started drinking together.

"You're right, but it's still hard."

"Well, dickhead, sitting here drinking in this dump isn't going to solve your problem."

Sara added, "Hey, I have a friend I want you to meet."

"Oh shit. You aren't trying to hook me up or sell me insurance, are you?"

"Naw, naw, this is a guy named Clarence."

"Ahhhhh, why?" Scott didn't like to meet people. A red flag, he thought.

"I think he could help you."

After a massive gulp of her Miller Lite, she added, "He has a way about him."

Looking straight ahead, Scott said, "What the fuck does that mean? He's not some sort of shrink, is he?"

Sara laughed, rolling her fat head backward. "No, dumb ass. Do you think a college-educated person would step into a dump like this?"

Frank, the owner and bartender, often listened in on conversations. He interjected, "Watch it, Sara; I resemble that remark."

Sara glanced Frank's way while saying, "He just kind of knows about life, and I bet he could even make a loser like you happy."

"Is he a drug dealer?"

Frank laughed.

Exasperated, she said, "You really are a dipshit."

After a pause, she said, "No. Just meet my friend, okay?"

"Okay."

###

"Hi, I'm Clarence."

Though reluctant, Scott said, "Hello."

"So your friend Sara is worried about you. She thinks you're going to off yourself."

"Guess I've been thinking about it."

"Well, why don't you do it?"

A little surprised, Scott broke away from the flat screen and looked at Clarence. "Thought you were supposed to help me?"

Smiling, Clarence said, "Well, maybe. I don't know you, but I hope you don't do it for Sara's sake. At least not right away."

"Right away?"

"Yeah, I don't think anybody should do it themselves until they're ready. And I'm not certain you're ready."

Clarence ordered a Beck’s dark. The bartender had moved their way to see if the new customer wanted anything. He didn't look like an imported beer drinker, thought Scott.

"Sara says you got a son. Guess you want to make it right for him before you go. I mean, whether it's natural or self-caused, I'm sure you want him taken care of."

"That's true."

"Well, Scotty, I want you to think of me as the "Make a Wish" for the suicidal."

It was rare, but Scott had to laugh.

"Why do you think Lee Harvey Oswald shot Kennedy?"

Scott thought that was a strange off-the-wall question. But he decided to play along. "I guess he didn't agree with his politics."

"Well, that may've been a part of it, but I think it was more than just that. Like you, Oswald felt like a big-time loser. So I think he wanted to do something to be remembered. And, he got his wish."

"So you want me to kill the president?"

"No, stupid. That's just an example." Clarence smiled and said, "Guess it's kind of an extreme example."

"Yep. I'd put it in the extreme category."

Taking a big gulp of his Beck, Clarence gurgled, "I think I realized my talent back in college."

Scott looked at Clarence and thought he must be some kind of liar. His hair was in a ponytail down to his waist. Tattoos were all over his arms. Dirty. He just didn't look like a college type. Tall, crane-like, and razor thin, he looked more like a meth head than a college type.

"As you can tell, it was another life."

Staring hard at Scott, he began again, "I met this dude in the dorm. He was really depressed. Maybe not as much as you, but he was sad about not having his dog from home with him at college. He was a freshman who really loved his German Sheppard."

Scott wondered where the hell the story was going.

"This guy loved his dog so much I think it might have been sexual. Anyway, we started talking about what he wanted in life. Like most of us, he wanted to be remembered for something. He may not have been suicidal like you, but regardless, he was fixated on his dog not being with him."

Sipping his beer, Clarence continued, "Guess this is where I'm good at matching a person's need to be remembered with something they really like or, in this case, loved."

Scott took a big gulp of his beer and said, "Not sure I'm following you."

"I don't know why, but I talked him into sneaking the dog into the dorm. I think I even promised to take the dog out when needed. I lied about that."

Pausing, Clarence said, "Well, actually it wasn't much of a lie. I mean, he had to keep the dog undetected, so the dog had to stay in his room most of the time."

"Oh man, I bet that place stank after a while." Scott was ready for Clarence to get to the point.

"That's where it really gets bizarre. We'd been talking about being remembered for something when the idea hit me. I told this dude that people who do peculiar things get remembered. They certainly can get in the newspaper."

"It's pretty weird already," said Scott.

"Well, it gets weirder. Don't know whose idea it was. But, we decided that he should go ahead and let his big German shepherd of a dog shit in the room. He dated each time his dog took a dump. I mean, it was kind of funny seeing index cards all over his dorm floor sticking out of dog poop. I couldn't go in there because of the mess, but this guy had no problem sleeping in the room with his beloved dog."

"So this dude didn't have a roommate?"

"His parents had a lot of money and he was too weird to have a roommate."

Scott wasn't sure if he could believe this guy, but who could make it up? "So. How long did this go on?"

"I think he made it to Thanksgiving. There were probably a hundred turds or so on the floor before he got caught."

Clarence sipped his beer. "You see, I have this innate ability to read people. It's like I knew what he wanted."

"You could tell he wanted to put dates on dog shit?"

"Well, no, besides that."

Scott thought Clarence seemed a little annoyed that he wasn't getting the gist of the story.

"After he got caught. The university had no plans to advertise it, so he left it up to me. I made sure his strange habit got in the school newspaper. I didn't have to do much before the local paper picked up the story. At first, the local paper wasn't going to publish it until I showed them photos of the turds with index cards."

"Wait a minute. You reported it?" Scott looked skeptical.

"Hey, it made him a legend. True, he had to spend some time in the loony bin, but he would tell you it was worth it today. When he got out, he got to be home with his parents and, more importantly, his dog. The whole thing was liberating. He told me all his depression went away after he got caught."

"I wouldn't want to be remembered that way. But it's what he wanted."

"So killing a president or putting dates on dog shit is what you're suggesting I do to get remembered?"

"No, no, no. Consider me your advisor. By the way, I have turned my talent into a viable business. I have about five other clients. My terms are you can't do anything beyond a misdemeanor, so there will be no killing a president."

Scott caught a slight smile on Clarence's face. Clarence had finally picked up on his sarcasm.

"Also, my pay scale varies by how much publicity you want. I charge two hundred for local and a thousand for national recognition. That doesn't include expenses. Finally, if suicide is part of your plan, then I will need ten thousand upfront to handle probable legal expenses."

"How do I know you aren't trying to screw me over?"

"Well, you trust Sara, right?"

Scott nodded.

"Think of it as money in escrow. You give it to Sara, and she holds it until you're satisfied or dead."

"Dead, huh?"

"Well, it doesn't have to be that way. But regardless, you really should do something besides sitting here on this barstool dreaming about ending it all."

"Okay, what do you suggest?"

"There are thousands of things you can do. Give Sara your money. We'll talk tomorrow?"

"How much did you say?"

"I want two hundred for local and a thousand for national notoriety. If you want me to help kill you—that's ten thousand.'"

"That's right."

"Hey, the national thing isn't that hard anymore. If the dog shit guy were here today, I could have easily gotten his name out there with Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, websites, blogs, you name it."

Scott wasn't sure if Clarence was serious when he added, "He was really a man ahead of his time."

###

"Sara told me you gave her a thousand bucks."

Scott was on his usual barstool when Clarence arrived. Wearing a dirty T-shirt, jeans, and sandals, he remained skeptical. He still found it difficult to believe that Clarence was ever a college man. The sandals were out of place on a cool early spring night. They were back in Bobby's Desires.

"I don't have enough money to kill myself."

"You can kill yourself for free, but for it to be spectacular, there's a charge."

"Forget about it. I was making a joke."

Looking serious, Clarence said, "Killing yourself isn't funny to me."

After a silent pause, Clarence said, "Okay, let's get started. You want to do anything weird?"

"Like putting dates on dog shit?"

"Well, that's a possibility. But I'm pretty sure you aren't serious."

"If I do anything, I want my son to be proud of it."

"Okay, okay. Do you have any hobbies?"

"Nothing except drinking beer . . . Why?"

"I had a client collect ashtrays. He had so many fucking ashtrays it was incredible. Anyway, I got him on TV and got him a piece in that Sunday paper insert."

Scott watched Clarence order a Beck’s dark. Clarence said, "Put it on Scott's tab."

"Not a big deal to me, but this guy was really into these ashtrays. He loved his ashtrays so much that it was one of my easier fixes."

Scott wondered where he was going. At first, he was mad at Sara for matching him up with this nut case. But then again, he was enjoying the attention. Though really weird, it was entertaining talking to Clarence.

"Well, I want something with a little more oomph, and besides, I don't have a hobby."

"Okay. Is there anything you like doing besides drinking beer?"

"Not much. I like to drink, and when I can, I like to sleep."

After a pause, Scott said, "I used to fish."

"Now we're getting somewhere. You want your son proud, and you used to fish."

Clarence had a quizzical look on his face; finally, he said, "Give me a few days and let me think on it."

Clarence gulped the rest of his beer and said, "See you in a few days."

Scott figured his thousand dollars was going to be a waste. But Sara did believe in Clarence.  She told him every night that Clarence would be back with a plan. He hoped she was right. Scott couldn't afford to throw away a thousand dollars. Besides, he needed something interesting to happen in his life. He tried believing it was for real.       

###

About a week elapsed before Clarence showed back up. Sara had to reassure Scott several times that he was coming back. The day before Clarence arrived, she told Scott, "I talked to C-man yesterday. He's close to making all the arrangements."

"Well, what's he got in mind?"

"He doesn't tell me anything. I guess it's like a priest confidentiality thing."

Scott didn't trust people, particularly after dealing with his ex-wife and her lawyer. But he did trust Sara. Kind of an honor code for bars, he thought.

Scott could tell Clarence was thrilled. "Hi, Scott, my man. I think I got us a plan."

Scott had just gotten off work, and Clarence had been sitting on the stool next to Scott's when he came into the bar. He'd ordered two beers—a Beck’s dark and a Corona on Scott's tab.

Scott was meeting Clarence for the third time at Bobby's Desires.

"It took a lot of hard thinking. Basically, you want to impress your son. So first things first, I know you don't want to kill yourself. However, it won't hurt to go ahead and sign this life insurance policy where your son is the beneficiary."

Clarence unfolded a thick stack of papers. It wasn't that Scott was against the idea of life insurance, but still, it seemed a little strange.

"Is this really necessary?"

"Look, dude, you're the one thinking about doing yourself in, so just in case, I think you really need to be insured." Clarence patted the stack of papers and slid them down the bar in front of Scott.

"Look ove these. If you're okay with the arrangements, go and see Klepper Insurance to finalize everything. I'm getting the ball rolling, but you need to do this before we can move on with my plan."

Scott grabbed the papers and said, "What's your plan?"

"You have to do this first."

"Why?"

"Just say I know you're kind. If I tell you my plan, you may be okay with it, but I predict you would sit on getting the life insurance."

"Thought you said only a misdemeanor. You know insurance fraud is a felony."

"I meant it for me, not for you. I'm not sure what I've planned will involve insurance fraud."

"So, what do you have planned?"

"Be at the lake Friday at nine-thirty. Meet me at the Peps Point launch. I'll check with Sara to make sure you got the insurance taken care of."

As Clarence got up from the barstool, he repeated with emphasis, "Don't forget about the insurance. You got two days to get that done."

###

Scott was having second thoughts about dealing with Clarence, though he had to admit the guy was interesting. Scott decided to get the insurance. He planned to go to the lake but was ready to back out of whatever he'd planned. It was about a thirty-minute drive to the lake. When he pulled into the boat launch area, he saw Clarence sitting on the edge of the bait shop porch. He was wearing a red and black flannel shirt, cut-offs, and dirty sockless sneakers. The rolled-up flannel sleeves made Clarence look like a lumberjack. It was a cool but not cold day. As Scott got close, he noticed the little toe area of the right sneaker had a hole.

"Howdy."

With some trepidation, Scott said, "Hey Clarence."

Excitedly, Clarence said, "Go in there and give them two hundred. We're going fishing."

Shocked, Scott gasped, "Two hundred. What the hell for?"

"The deal was plus expenses."

After a pause, Clarence said, "You're getting off cheap. Fishing equipment, bait, beer, boats, and motors are expensive." He added, "I got us a half-day discount on the boat and motor."

As Scott walked toward the cabin door, Clarence held up a red gym bag and said, "Hey, I brought us lunch."

Shaking his head, Scott said, "Great."

The trip to what Clarence described as the "honey hole" was uneventful. When they got there, it was in a cove almost directly across from the boat landing. Clarence had decided they would fish for bream that day, so all they needed was cane poles, bobbers, hooks, sinkers, and crickets. Clarence had Scott drop and tie off the anchor.

After a few minutes, Clarence asked Scott, "You want a beer?"

"Sure."

Digging into the cooler, Clarence first brought out a long-barreled pistol that had been sitting on top of the ice.

"Why'd you bring that? Are you going to shoot me?"

Clarence started laughing. "No, dumbass."

Like a faucet turned off, Clarence quit laughing and said, "Sara says you got the life insurance policy taken care of."

"Yep."

"That's good." After a brief pause, Clarence said, "I like to shoot turtles and snakes."

"Why do you need a cannon for that?"

"You like my gun? It's what Dirty Harry used—Smith Wesson Model 29-magnum. Uses .44 caliber bullets."

Clarence tossed Scott a beer.

"I guess you're going to make me swim back or drown."

Clarence smiled and said, "Hate to tell you this, but your sorry ass drowning might make the local paper if there is not too much going on in the news."

"You sure aren't helping me feel better about myself."

Clarence said, "If you get hungry. I brought sardines and crackers."

After a while, Clarence said, "Besides, I'm not sure the insurance gets covered if there is any hint of suicide."

They sat there for quite some time without a bite or even a nibble. Finally, Clarence said, "What do you want to get out of the rest of your life?"

"Thought I already told you."

"No. Not really. Besides, if you did, I would like to hear it again."

"Well, not much; I just would like my son to be proud of me."

"Yeah, you've said that, so I guess you mean it."

After another lengthy pause, Clarence said, "I have to take a dump. Glad I brought a roll of TP. Pull up the anchor."

It was such a short distance; rather than cranking the motor, Clarence paddled. The tree line was a couple of yards from the shore.

When the bow touched the sand, Clarence said, "Get out and pull the boat up on the shore."

The aluminum bottom made a grinding sound as Scott gave it a hard tug.

Stumbling out of the boat with the toilet paper in his left hand, Clarence began traipsing into the woods off the shoreline. Scott went into the woods as well to take a leak. Clarence had gone to his right to do his business. Scott went to the right.

When Scott came back to the boat, he saw Clarence sitting about fifty feet from the shore. Scott said, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Scott, it's time for you to make a decision. I left a pistol over there on that rock."

Clarence was pointing to Scott's left. Scott saw the red gym bag."

"I don't want to kill myself today if that is what you want me to do."

"No, no, no. I don't want you to kill yourself. The insurance wouldn't cover it if your head were half blown off. I would have to do some real explaining if I left you over there to kill yourself."

"So, what is it you want me to do?"

"Well, Scott, this is how it's going to be. At seven-thirty this morning, two masked men kidnapped your son from your ex-wife when she was taking him to school."

Scott felt his face redden. He looked incredulous as he realized what Clarence was saying. Finally, Scott said, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"As I said, your son was kidnapped a couple of hours ago."

Scott snarled, "You son of a bitch!"

"I know you're angry, but listen. I know the two men who took your son. They're scum. See, I told them to do this, and there would be a lot of money. It's amazing what you can get meth heads to do for money."

Raising his voice, Scott said, "So you've kidnapped my son for a ransom?"

"Well, technically, yes, but I would say no."

Scott listened as Clarence added, "Hear me out. Your son is tied to a tree about a thousand yards up that embankment. The one tree is in an opening where I'm supposed to meet them shortly. The two druggies are waiting on me to bring them some money."

Frustrated, Scott said, "You've got to be kidding."

"Well, no, but please listen to my plan. A ransom note was placed in your mailbox. Sara put it there at nine this morning. She kind of hung around and waited for you to leave."

Scott couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"So, either you're going to go up there and kill them, or I'm going to have to do it."

Confused, Scott said, "I don't understand. How do you know that I won't go to the police about all this?"

"Well, actually, there are two reasons. The men are impatient. If we don't get up there by two p.m., they'll do something. I'm not sure what they'll do. But there won't be time to get the police."

Scott just stood there.

"And, if you plan to turn me in, that's a mistake. Giving Sara a thousand and signing the insurance papers is fishy. I can certainly make it look like you were involved in everything."

"How?"

I gave the two men the thousand you gave Sara. I could say that the thousand you paid them upfront was part of the deal you had made to get yourself killed."

"Part of the deal?"

"My job was to give them some of the ten thousand you were giving me to help you kill yourself."

"I don't understand."

"You just got a life insurance policy, and Sara can vouch that you were depressed, so obviously, you were looking for a way to support your son through life insurance."

"I still don't follow you."

"You get cold feet, and the two men get really angry and kidnap your son. Fortunately, I ended it all by killing the two men, saving your son, and saving you. I get in a little trouble for aiding and abetting; you get in big trouble for committing insurance fraud."

After a pause, Clarence said, "Hope it's clear now. The thousand dollars was a down payment to have you killed. So you see, it all fell through when I saved both you and your son from the two bad men. Your accusing me was just a ploy to get yourself out of the mess."

Clarence held up a second pistol that was lying in the bottom of the boat.

"You see, Scott, one of us is going to kill those two men. It doesn't matter to me; I don't need the fame. If you end up getting killed, I'll be there to clean up the mess. The really good news is that your son will get the insurance if you get killed."

After a pause, Clarence said, "See it as your opportunity to gain fame and your son's respect. Don't get mad at me about this."

Grinning, Clarence added, "By the way, I did lie about one thing. There is what I call a closure fee. For it all to work out fine, you'll need to get me ten thousand in two hundred dollar monthly cash installments.

"Two hundred dollar monthly cash installments?" Scott couldn't believe this was happening.

"Yeah, spreading it out reduces the suspicion."

It didn't take long for Scott to figure out Clarence had the upper hand. Though fearful, he knew he had to comply with Clarence’s plan.

###

Fighting through briars and bramble, Scott was amazed at how fast Clarence seemed to move through the thick underbrush. While Scott had to stop and struggle to pull thorny briars from his jeans, Clarence seemed to move like a mountain goat through it all with ease. It took Scott and Clarence several minutes to near the clearing. Getting there quietly was impossible. Leaves crunched and fallen branches snapped as they struggled to reach the open area. Scott was surprised; despite the racket, the men remained seated while leaning against a log in front of a fire. Scott could see Billy tethered to an oak tree in the center of the clearing; Billy had a black hood pulled over his head.

Clarence whispered, "I think it's going to be pretty easy. They're probably stoned already. Let’s go now while they're away from your kid. I don't want your boy hit in the crossfire.”

Scott said, "Crossfire? You didn't say they would have guns."

Clarence snickered and said, "Don't worry, they didn’t hear us coming through these leaves. They’re so high they'll end up shooting each other."

Scott felt Clarence pushing him toward the clearing. He hated the idea that Clarence expected him to lead the way. When they came into the clearing, everything Scott saw seemed to happen in slow motion. The men didn't have time to rise when Scott heard Clarence say, “Plug them now.”

Scott hesitated as one of the men began to reach behind his back. As the other man tried to get up, the ear-splitting, loud echoing sound of Clarence’s 44 magnum went off, like a cannon in Scott’s ear. Scott watched the men go through a few minor convulsions. The men were dead with bullet holes leaking blood into spiderweb-looking blotches on their bright white T-shirts.

Since Clarence did the killing, Scott was afraid that maybe Clarence had in mind getting rid of all the witnesses. Clarence pointed to the woods with his pistol and held his right index finger to his lips. When they reached the edge of the woods, Clarence said, "That went a lot easier than I expected."

Scott stood mute and had a shocked look on his face.

"Here's the plan. Before we unhook your kid, we have to make it look like self-defense."

"Self-defense?" Scott's voice trembled.

"Yes, we have to make sure they have their guns out. I need to move them around a little bit to look like they've fallen down. Fire at least one of their weapons. Wipe away my footprints. We can do all this in a few minutes. Come on."

Scott was shook up over what Clarence did. Listening was easy. He preferred listening to talking or doing anything after what he had just seen. Scott was glad that Clarence seemed to know what he was doing.

"After we make this look like self-defense, I'm going to leave. You go un-hood your kid. I'll anonymously call the law."

Wiping his gun down, Clarence extended his pistol to Scott and said, “I’ll take yours.”

Scott remained mute as he felt Clarence grabbing the dangling pistol from his right hand.

“You know, just in case the cops try to match bullets.” Scott felt that Clarence said this like it was something he did every day.

Scott meekly murmured, "You're going to leave me?" He wasn't sure he could do this.

"Yes, dumbass, you’re the hero around here."

"What do I tell the cops?" Scott seemed clueless.

Clarence said, "Tell them you were going to pay these butt holes ten thousand dollars to kill you and not make it look like a suicide. This way your son could've collected insurance money. When you changed your mind, they got angry and kidnapped your son for ten thousand dollars."

"Isn't that a crime?"

"Well, maybe a little crime. I mean, you didn't go through with it. You killed the pricks in self-defense. It'll all work out."

Scott realized he didn't have a choice now.

###

"Hi, dumbass."

Sara plopped down next to Scott. She quickly ordered a Miller Lite.

"So, are you still depressed?"

Scott did not want to talk to her. True, he was no longer depressed after what happened a month ago.

She whispered, even though the bartender had moved to the other end of the bar, "Did you really kill both of them?"

"My gun only had two bullets. Clarence's had six. You figure it out."

Sara chuckled, "Guess Ole Clarence wanted to make sure you didn't make it three that day."

"Unless you're a good shot, which I'm not, the chances of me killing two men with two bullets are slim."

"I see."

She looked at Scott with admiration. "So I hear the judge dropped everything."

Scott, who didn't want to talk about it, said, "Guess I'm too big a hero. You know, saving my son and whacking these two scumbags. Things are hunky-dory except for having to pay a fine for attempted insurance fraud."

"I told you Clarence could fix you up. He always comes through." Sara gave Scott a look of satisfaction.

Scott finally said, "How's Ole Clarence doing?"

"He's doing fine. Business is good. Think he has two more new clients."

"Guess you're here for the two hundred bucks."

While seeming to be demurring, Sara smiled and said, "Well, yes. But I was hoping we could still be friends. You've got to admit the headlines of saving your boy from kidnappers were pretty exciting."

"Suppose I refuse to pay the two hundred; what's going to happen?"

"I've known Clarence for some time. He's very conscientious. After you make your twenty monthly payments, it's over. But if you cross him, it won't be good. He's somebody you really don't want to mess with."

Sighing, Scott said, "Yeah, you're right. Clarence is pretty sure of himself."

Looking at Scott, she smiled and said, "Hey, you made national news, you're a hero around this town, and your boy is proud of his daddy. You have to love it."

Scott in an upbeat voice, said, "Yeah, I like it. Everyone, including my ex-bitch wife, now wants to be my friend."

Sara repeated her question, "So dumbass, even if I'm Clarence's mule, can we still be friends?"

She wasn't going to let up on the verbal abuse.

Looking at Sara and smiling, he said, "I even got promoted at work."

Sipping his beer, Scott added, "I needed that, my friend… to pay off Clarence."

"Lucky you," said Sarah.

"Indeed," he agreed. Scott ordered another round for the both of them as they celebrated into the night.

THE END