sjsprWriting

Mr. Mullard was sure that withdrawing cash from an ATM at 3:00 am wasn’t the most prudent choice. Nonetheless, he had run out of cash at the bar and was craving a fourth glass of gin. Besides, the street lights were only half working, and everyone he ever loved was undoubtedly sleeping at this hour. As for safety, he didn’t care much for it. He was a veteran soldier and most often wished for death. Vietnam was 30 years ago as of yesterday; he had reminded himself when he looked at his calendar that morning. He hadn’t been home since 8 am; his wife had already called several times since 8 pm.

Mr. Mullard reached out to punch in his credit card number with a liver-spotted forefinger when he felt hard metal against his left temple. It should have startled him, yet to him it was an old familiar feeling. Some days when he felt really nostalgic, he almost missed that hard metal.

“Take out five-hundred. Cash. Now,” said a voice that sounded far away, although he could feel the warm breath of every word uttered.

“I don’t have five-hundred,” Mr. Mullard replied calmly, dryly.

“Bullshit. Five-hundred. Or I’ll shoot.”

Mr. Mullard snorted what sounded like a short laugh. “You might just have to shoot me then, son. I don’t have five-hundred.” He maintained an unnatural poise. His hands were shaking, sure, but that was due to the need of another stiff drink. He was almost enjoying himself now. In a way, this made him feel young again.

The other man kept a firm grasp of the gun and an even firmer grasp on Mr. Mullard’s neck. “Gimme all the money in your goddamn account, old man.”

“It ain’t much. About two-fifty,” Mr. Mullard responded. “Either way, you ain’t gonna shoot me. I know so.”

“And how the hell do you know so?” He held Mr. Mullard even tighter and repeated the question. He pressed his mouth against Mr. Mullard’s ear. “How the hell do you know so?”

“Well,” he responded. “You haven’t cocked your gun yet. That’s a little important. And second, you ain’t got no bullets in that gun.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“How would you know?”

“Because, I just know so.”

“Damn you, you old piece of shit.”

“That’s not very polite. You should always charge your gun before you go around mugging people like that, son,” he said. He had become amused by the funny little man mugging him. If Mr. Mullard had to put an age on him, it wouldn’t be more than 21.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t beat your ass to a pulp.”

“Maybe so,” replied Mr. Mullard. “But, you see, you’re not the first person to stick a gun to my head like that.” The man didn’t say anything. “And you know, when you get used to having guns pressed to your head like this, well, you learn to take some precautions.” In a swift, youthful movement, Mr. Mullard freed himself from the man’s grasp and pinned him against the ATM. Out of his own pants he pulled out his a hand gun and held it in front of the man’s face. The small man breathed hard, as if exhausted by that single movement. “I’ve had this gun for thirty years, son. And every single time I walk out of my house, I count how many bullets it has in its system. Right now, it’s got three. One for your head, one for your chest, and one for your stomach.”

The man was wheezing at this point. Mr. Mullard sighed as an old man would if his grandchild was crying over a teddy bear he had lost three years ago. “I ain’t gonna kill you,” he said. “Just…just get out of here. You should go home to your mom. You shouldn’t be mugging people like this, son. You’re gonna get hurt one of these days. Your mom wouldn't want that for you.”

With all the certainty in the world, Mr. Mullard released the small man from his grasp. The man stepped back quickly, then stood facing Mr. Mullard. “My gun ain’t got bullets,” was all he said. “How’d you know my gun ain’t got bullets?”

Mr. Mullard shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

Calmly, Mr. Mullard withdrew fifty dollars as he had planned to do a full ten minutes ago. The small man stared at him throughout the process, but he didn’t seem to mind. “You should go home,” he said, not looking up from the ATM. “The streets are no place for a boy like you.” Mr. Mullard tucked his money into his pocket and set out for the bar a few blocks away. The small man stood there for a while, staring at the figure walking away from him until it had completely vanished in the night. The street light above him finally gave in and short-circuited.