GB walked into work at 11pm. He was shirtless, weathered and smothered with prison ink. Said they had cut him down five years behind and now his wife had fucked him by fucking her boss. I told him I knew how he felt.
The police had just let him go. Her boss came at him like a dog and he needed help.
“My name is GB and I will kill them tomorrow” he told me. Dead in the eye as if looking for doubt. I didn’t.
I phoned for help. Two different women. The second more caring than the former, but she would have to travel from Killingsworth.
The game was up. I had done all I could do and it was time to shut shop. I shook his hand and told him where to wait for his rescue. He told me that he would return on the morrow. To thank me. The only person to have helped him on the test.
Cautiously I move from the counter. My wallet and phone now ignorantly safe within my pockets. He declares that he is not a thief and I honestly return that I believe his word.
Back door locked. Move the maniac forward. Front door locked. Wish him safety. He reiterates his gratefulness and I remind him of his rescue just opposite this road that he walks out on and in front of a car that comes screeching to a halt.
“Why didn’t you hit me?” he screams at the vehicle as if oblivious to the idea that this machine may have occupants.
“Why didn’t you hit me!?” he screams as he smashes his open palms against the bonnet of the car.
I grabbed GB by his enormous shoulder and moved him from the road. He followed me willingly as tears welled in his eyes. Now the question is mine to decipher.
“Why didn’t they hit me?”
I locked up shop and warned the clients of the sad man. As I walked home I understood his desperation and checked the streets for his body.
I have no knowledge as to what became of the man named GB.
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