New Flash Fiction
A new bit of flash fiction in dialect. Enjoy!
Mr. Dancin’ Man
by Jonah Gibson
Vassar was in one a them moods where you don’t give him no shit, no matter what he wants to do, on account of he is gonna do it anyways. So what he does is, he takes all my change offa the bar while I’m sittin there watchin an plugs it in the juke they got over in the corner. He presses buttons an that juke starts to playin every weepy, pedal-steel country song there is—least the ones give country a bad name—an the next thing I know he’s got some ole gal out on the dance floor, pushin her around in a passable two step while he grabs himself a big ole handful of ass.
Now while this is goin on, her ole man that she come with is sittin in his booth sightin in on Vassar’s head over the rim of a longneck. What I’m thinkin is this don’t portend well, if you know what I mean. Trouble is percolatin, an it ain’t gonna be like no mornin cuppa joe.
Well, the juke finally runs dry an Vassar gets that gal off in a corner an tries to lick her tonsils. She slaps him right across his face an stomps off, leavin him standin there by hisself pondering where he mighta went wrong.
Vassar comes back to the bar for another brew, an he’s like, How you suppose to tell where a woman draws the line when they crazy like that? They let you grab their ass but you ain’t allowed to give em a little kiss? It don’t make no sense.
Now me personal, I ain’t got no idea, on account of I wouldn’t do neither thing, specially if I knowed her ole man was watchin. But Vassar, bein a different kind of a poke, he don’t care much what other folks is thinkin, least of all some ole gal’s jealous ole man.
Later, Vassar bein bored with things, we step outta that bar into the afternoon an it’s hot an the sun is glintin offa the cars in the parkin lot bright as a weldin torch, an there ain’t no breeze to take the edge off things. Wouldn’t you know, here comes that gal’s husband with a double-barrel sawed-off shotgun, lookin all peevish an such.
He’s got a grip on the thing so’s I can see his knuckles is white from squeezin too hard. He gets himself up in Vassar’s face, an he’s like, What do you got to say for yerself now, Mr. Dancin Man?
Vassar sizes the guy up, an he’s grinnin like Vassar does, like that’s suppose to defuse whatever it is he’s got hisself into. Then he puts his hands up, only not very far, an he’s like, Dude? That your missus?I tell you what. She got herself one fine ass.
So the guy levels that scattergun at Vassar’s belly button an cocks a hammer an I’m thinkin, Well here we go now. This here’s trouble. An then the ole boy flips the barrels to one side a little an pulls the trigger an punches a spray of double ought holes in the door of Vassar’s Cadillac motorcar.
Vassar don’t even act surprised. He just shakes his head an snatches the gun clean outta the guy’s hands. Smoke is still curlin outta the end. He cracks it open, pries the shell outta the chamber that ain’t fired, an slips it in the guy’s shirt pocket. Then he hands the gun back. Guy’s got a look on his face now like I ain’t never seen before.
Vassar laughs, an then he goes, WoooEee! Man! Sure am glad I didn’t drive my pickup today!