They had the money so they got an apartment and spent their time eating junk food, doing dope, watching slash movies. They’d almost forgotten Bine when he came to their apartment one day. Ignoring the squalor of the place, empty takeaway cartons, sink afloat in unwashed dishes, he said,
“See, I told you guys I’d be back and your day would come.”
He was dressed in black: combats, sweatshirt, Doc Martens. He embraced them both-it was a long time since any person had touched them in any form-and said,
“The day has come, my crew.”
If he noticed the shithole they were living in, he didn’t comment. No one else did either as no one else ever came. He produced a bottle of Wild Turkey and a nice bundle of nose candy. Said,
“Mi amigos, get wasted and then we’ll talk.”
They did, did some serious lines, washed down with the bourbon in heavy dollops. They were sitting at the battered remains of what had once been a valuable antique table: not no more. The brothers had seen to that. Bine sat back, said,
“Kay, here’s the gig. Firstly, my name is now Bine and I want to ask you guys a question.”
The brothers looked at each other, then nodded.
He asked,
“Your miserable lives going anywhere?”
Jimmy took the insult easily, he was used to it, but Sean didn’t much care for it. He answered, said,
“We have some plans.”
Bine threw back his head, laughed loudly, scoffed,
“Right, like watching Tarantino, Rodriguez movies, eating fast food, and doing weed.”
All true.
Bine added,
“Like to be in your own real-life movie, make a real name for yerselves, get splashed on the front pages of every paper in the country?”
Sure.
Who wouldn’t?
He said,
“But the thing is, it takes cojones to make that kind of impact and I wonder if you guys have what it takes.”
Sean said,
“Bring it on.”
Bine gave a glorious smile, said,
“Simple test.”
Jimmy, wanting to keep current, said,
“Yeah, what you got?”
Bine had a battered holdall, reached in and pulled out a gun, said, “See this? It’s your real Colt. 45. My old man paid a fortune for it. Take a look.”
It was black, shiny, and for all the world like the one Clint used in his westerns. Jimmy said,
“Fucking beauty.”
Bine produced one single bullet, inserted it and spun the barrel, said,
“Here’s where we see what you got?”
He put the gun to his head, pulled the trigger.
Click… nada.
He inverted the gun, handed it to Sean, barrel first, asked,
“Wanna play?”
Sean didn’t even think, analyse or swirl the barrel. He put it to his head, pulled the trigger.
Click… nada.
Then grabbed the Turkey, drank straight from the bottle.
Bine said,
“My kind of guy, like Clooney said in From Dusk Till Dawn, you are in my cool book.”
They turned to Jimmy, whose whole life was a movie; he just wished he had a bandanna so he could be Chris Walken in The Deer Hunter. He took the Colt, made a dramatic show of spinning the chamber, and then put it to his head.
For one lucid moment, Sean nearly cried,
“Fuck’s sake, stop.”
He didn’t rate much in the world of bile and hatred he inhabited. But Jimmy, Jesus, Jimmy was all he had, and…without him? The gun cocked and, almost in slow motion, the hammer came down.
Click….not this day.
Sean realized he was sweating and Jimmy whooped,
“Fucking A, way cool, dude.”