I’ve Got Ten on the Pretty Fella
by Travis Flatt

 

 

They’re at it again, crashing from Tom’s Pub, and brawling up Main Street.

Two of the young, scrappy ones, the hoplites, left out, climb through the smashed window and chase.

“Wait up,” they call out, kid brotherly, strapping on their breast plates.

 “Someone’s going to get hurt,” mutters Granny Wilcox, setting her latte on the cafe’s patio table. Granny says this now, every time, and follows up with ”I’ve got ten on the pretty fella.”

I’ve put in a petition with the mayor - enough is enough - it’s hard enough for folk to run an honest business in this economy, even besides Trojan Wars running around unchecked. And, they say for every one you see, there’s a hundred crawling around somewhere in the dark. Thermophiles under the sink. Makes me shudder.

Dr. Carver, from the university, purrs up in his Tesla. Illegally parks in the Performing Arts Center’s handicap spot, leaps out and starts in with historical inaccuracies.

“We know, Carver, we know,” says Granny, dabbing a foam mustache away with her napkin. She sighs at me like, “What are you going to do?”

The fighting’s moved north toward Willow. Wounded heroes strewn here and there in the street.

“He’s not supposed to be dead yet,” shouts Carver toward the unlistening mob, checking his watch.

Granny lays a dollar on the table - she’s always been a shit tipper - and takes my arm. “You might as well close up shop, Bradley. It’s just about time for the climax.” I lock the door. Only open the place each morning out of habit. And Christian duty. Folks’ are all buying from Lowes now, anyway. Especially with those bulk prices, and the need for ballistas, catapults, and giant horses.

We don’t walk as fast as we used to, so by the time we’ve reached the melee, Granny’s Pretty Fella’s up on the roof of the courthouse, letting loose his golden arrow.

There’s a wail from the skinny kid who reminds me of Brayden, my eldest, who’s up at school in New England and never likes my Facebook posts.

I feel bad for the kid - the one crying on the street; the one who’s just lost his friend to the golden arrow through the leg.

They’re more than friends, Granny once corrected me. She’s sharp that way.

Hey, I don’t judge.

“Well, pay up,” says Granny, and I hand over her ten dollars, though I never agreed on the bet. But I like the way she smiles.

“Alright, let’s get back inside before the sacking and the raping starts,” I say, and take her lacey sleeve. “We’ve seen enough for one Tuesday.” The boys in the fire engines are all positioned and ready, stone-faced, playing on their phones.

You couldn’t pay someone to police in this town anymore.

“You don't want to miss the speeches,” Granny says, “that’s the best part.” She’s referring to the big, shimmering ones who descend from the heavens, but I’ve heard it all before.

 I just want to get on back to my truck, ahead of the pillaging traffic.

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