Creamy Bullets by Sampsell Kevin

Author:Sampsell, Kevin [Sampsell, Kevin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: humor, Creamy Bullets, Kevin Sampsell, Oregon, sex, flash fiction, Chiasmus Press, Future Tense, Portland, short stories
Publisher: Chiasmus Press
Published: 2011-07-28T20:00:00+00:00

Shane and I went out that night and drank some beer at the Black Bear. It was the kind of place filled with picnic tables and benches instead of regular tables and chairs. They had a hundred beers on tap and a clientele consisting mostly of bike messengers. I’d been a regular customer for ten years, ever since I got a fake ID at eighteen. When I turned 21 I started using my real ID and the bartenders just laughed about being duped for so long.

Shane had invited Libby to join us but she was going to some sort of women’s book club meeting. She’d been plowing through a 500-page Margaret Atwood novel all day at work.

“Maybe we should organize a benefit or something,” Shane suggested. He was one beer ahead of me.

“Who would we get to play for a water buffalo?” I said.

“Are you kidding me? We could get all sorts of bands. Just have Libby ask them. Who can say no to Libby?”

“What do you think about Libby, anyway?”

Shane finished off his third porter and looked around before answering. “She’s cool. But she can be kind of preachy too, I guess. Like when she bosses people around at work.”

“No, I mean, do you think she’s cute?”

Shane scooted his empty glass to the edge of the table and shrugged. He took his time to think of an answer though he already knew it. It was something he thought about a lot. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “I’m not a big fan of the dreadlocks though. I like the pink, just not the clumps.”

“I heard that stuff is made out of fertilizer.”

“What, dreadlocks?”

“Yeah, like some kind of poop.”

Shane thought about this for a second. He looked around and nodded toward a forty-ish guy with dreadlocks wearing a Clash t-shirt. “You should go ask that guy over there,” he told me.

“No way, man.”

“I’ll buy you a beer if you do.”

I got up without saying a word and walked over by the guy. He was hanging out with two girls that I’d seen in the record store before—Gwen Stefani wannabes. I leaned over and asked them if I could borrow their salt. I walked back to Shane.

“You didn’t ask him,” he said.

“I didn’t have to ask. I smelled.”

“Nice,” he said. “Nice and covert. Was it poopy?”

“Like a day-old diaper,” I said.

Libby walked in just then. She spotted us, gave us the thumbs up, and went to the bar to order a beer.

“Why don’t you just take a good whiff of her hair when she gets over here,” I said to Shane.

“Shut up,” he said. “No more poop talk.”

She walked over with a pint of local beer, lemon wedged on its lip.

“How was the poop talk?” I asked. “I mean, book talk.”

“There were only three people there this time. And no one even read the whole book.” She squeezed a little lemon onto her tongue. “You’d think that literacy was dead or something.”

“It is,” I said. “Anyone that reads books is a rebel.”

“You don’t read books,” Shane scoffed.

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