WYATT
November, 2016
Wyatt Miller wandered down the snack aisle of the Mr. Petrol’s at 11:30 at night. Nothing like trying to find dinner in the aisles of a convenience store. Did onion rings and beef jerky count as a balanced diet? He could consider the onion rings to be his vegetables, and the beef jerky to be his protein.
He grimaced. Some days, living in a small town really sucked, like when grocery stores prided themselves on being “open late” – all the way until nine at night.
He pulled Lay’s Salt & Vinegar off the display.
Look, more vegetables.
He wasn’t sure a dietician would approve, but then again, there was almost nothing in this convenience store that a dietician would approve of. He really should just drive to Franklin and go grocery shopping there, but that was 30 minutes away and he just didn’t feel like it. When he died, his headstone was going to read, “Too lazy to drive to Franklin; died of a heart attack from eating junk food from Mr. Petrol’s.”
Just then, a vehicle pulled up outside. Well, “pulled up” made it sound like the driver was in control of their actions, but as Wyatt watched, his bag of chips forgotten in his hands, he saw the Jeep stop just in time to keep from crashing through the front windows of the convenience store.
Oh shit.
He knew that Jeep. There was only one orange camo Jeep in the valley.
The driver’s side door swung open and out swaggered Richard. Wyatt couldn’t tell if Richard was swaggering because he was so arrogant and full of himself – always a possibility – or because he was drunk – definitely another possibility.
Wyatt reminded himself to breathe in, and then out. And then repeat it all over again. He couldn’t react the way he wanted to – a punch to the face – so he needed to just stay calm. That’s what everyone would tell him, anyway.
He knew that. It was a matter of remembering that. And doing that.
No matter how good a punch to Richard’s face would feel.
Richard stumbled into the store and from two aisles over, Wyatt could smell the fumes rolling off him.
Drunk it was.
Richard managed to make his way over to the beer case without taking out an end-cap display, nothing short of a miracle really, and snagged a 24-pack of Budweiser.
A 24-pack? Really? When you’re already this wasted?
Wyatt was having a hard time breathing again and he realized that he’d smashed the bag of chips in his hands into a tiny ball, chips spilling onto the floor from the busted seams of the bag. Richard didn’t seem to notice the noise, though, swinging the 24-pack up onto the counter and swiping his debit card moments later.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Wyatt was hoping that at any moment, the cashier would stop him. Surely, he’d realize that giving Richard more beer at this point was a truly awful idea.
Right?
Richard took his beer and began stumbling towards the door.
The cashier wasn’t going to stop him. Wyatt could feel the rage begin to boil up inside of him.
“Why did you sell him that beer?!” The words burst out of Wyatt like gunfire. He couldn’t stop himself from asking any more than he could stop himself from breathing.
“Dude, do you know who that is?” the cashier responded with a shrug.
“Of course I know who that is,” Wyatt ground out.
“Well, my probation is almost up. Just a month more and I’m out of the system. I’m not pissing off the judge’s son.”
That was it. Wyatt threw the mangled bag of chips to the floor and sprinted for the door. He wasn’t about to stand by and let Richard take someone’s life because he happened to share genetic material with the only judge in town. Oh hell no.
He burst out the front door of Mr. Petrol’s. Richard had finally managed to get his key into the ignition and turn it. Wyatt grabbed the door handle and yanked it open.
“Whaddya want, killer?” Richard slurred, blearily focusing his eyes on Wyatt.
“Hello, brother. Nice to see you again.” Wyatt pulled back his fist and planted it squarely in the middle of Dick’s nose.
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