For some reason he had carpentered his desk, adding his own
little touches to it, here and there.
Oh, he wasn’t trying to say that he made the desk. No, he would have to probably study for
eighty years of woodworking before he could ever make such a fine proper desk
as he possessed. “When one works, one should work in the proper environment of
said life’s work; moreover, if proper environment is not obtained then your
life’s work becomes a job,” his Father’s edict throughout his juvenile life,
“And believe me, you don’t want no damn job!”
So, no, a job was not an option whatsoever. And Daddy had been right on the money with
that maxim…
But I am getting off of the story a wee bit. The alterations of note… Why the alterations
you may be asking?...
Well, hell, my ass is paranoid! Shit, what do you want me to tell you? I just love woodworking? Or some shit like that? That’s what he’s here
for! Shit! I told him I wasn’t no writer, that’s why I’m
telling him the shit...
Oh, I’m sorry, you’re correct, the purpose of aforementioned
tweaks on the desk. And please forgive
him, he gets like that sometimes when he wants to try to take over the story…
Well, like the white people, he did enjoy himself some
safety. And your ass cannot be too safe;
ergo, constructing a side pistol holder on this fine wooded proper
utility!
But the agent, or so called agent, didn’t have a clue. So it was no surprise to him when he was on
his computer, Blogging as he usually does, writing about the future and the
injustices of all humans that are not rich, when a white man, with aviator
sunglasses, wearing a John Deere baseball cap, plaid shirt, blue jeans and
cowboy boots, just walked into his room which he uses for said Blogging. The guy smiled and he thought that odd. He kind of smiled at the intruder and said
offhandedly, “So this is really like this shit goes down? Like those foul, trite assed movies that they
make and flood the market with this shit?
This is how it goes down?” He
asked in amazement.
The guy, still smiling, simply says, “Yeah, pretty much.”
Damn he sure has some
nice teeth to have a southern twang like he does. Those teeth are definitely real, not some
damn dentures or paste-ons , he liked to call false teeth, oh, forgive him
, veneers…Shit his mind started to be not focused like usual, not focusing on
the situation at hand that if he didn’t reach for that .380 Beretta semi-automatic which was nestled that he so adeptly, if he must say so himself, manufactured the pistol holder there
on the right side of his desk… tomorrow, this fine pieced desk he could not
enjoy, nor his invention, nor his life...
He smiled to himself thinking, “And that just ain’t goin ta
happen…at least not today.”
(…to be continued…)
