A Remington Rumble

Mercutio McDoozie: in the recreation room at the State Penitentiary

Remington, you striped scumbag, that’s my little brother you are talking about.  You’d better watch your canary-singing back out in the yard, man.  For real. 

Ana, sweet Ana, it’s good to know someone in the world has hung onto their soul.  After years in the joint I’ve had nothing but time to think about things.  In those early days, if I’d been thinking with my big head instead of my… well, you know what I mean, maybe we could have dated.  I’d like to think it could have happened, had things turned out differently. I didn’t know there were girls like you out there. 

Choices I made back then seemed necessary at the time.  For my ego, getting the respect.  I had something to prove.  Yep.  I proved how big an a*hole could get.  Had I thought out consequences beyond how I was going to show them, maybe I would have made different choices.  That victory lap of ego doesn’t go far when those shackles are locked onto the ankles of your life.  Maybe it took these prison walls for me to realize it.       

Can’t change the past now.

Hey Ana, I almost forgot.  Bruiser wants to know if you’re on Facebook. 

(Oh, and do you ever go on Protagonize?  I write little stories on there once in awhile.)

And Bruiser wants to know if you'll send him a pack of Marlboro’s.

Remington, Mr. Tough Guy, don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.  You’re just a big stinking sack of typewriter ribbons and electric shavers.  Oooo, scary.  See you in the yard, loser.   

The End

19 comments about this story Feed