Brent was still sulking by the time we got back to the apartment. I sat down at my computer and left him staring at a blank TV screen. After about two minutes, he got tired of me ignoring him. “I can’t believe he said that!” he growled, but not low enough to keep it to himself.

“Which part?” I asked without turning around. “The whole school plan was pretty dumb.”

“All that bullshit about Amy being a bitch and me being pussy-whipped!”

“Yeah, well, Tony’s an asshole.”

“But he has it made! Money! Women! Everything a man would want! And he can’t appreciate it!”

“Fine, he’s a stupid asshole. So get over it already.”

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Brent muttered. “That stupid, selfish asshole. He doesn’t deserve to have the life he has.” He trailed off and the quiet was disconcerting enough that I turned around to make sure he wasn’t doing anything stupid. He was, of course. He was staring down at the gun I had left on the coffee table, a growing look of desperation on his face.

Not this bullshit again, I thought to myself, jumping out of my chair and making a grab for it. But Brent was quicker, snatching it up like a whiplash, and then he was standing, the gun held in front of him. He stepped backwards in quick jumps, keeping the distance between us.

He almost caressed it, sliding his finger down the barrel. “I…. I just don’t know…” he said softly. Then he looked back up at me, his face twisting in confusion. An expression flitted over his features that I hadn’t seen in a while.

Well, shit. The tragedy of Brent, Act V, scene iii; wherein our poor, cursed hero kills not only himself but his faithful friend as well. We hadn’t done this one in almost a year; I don’t think I even remembered my first line.

Brent looked back at the gun, then back at me, trying to find just the right words to make the moment perfect. Me, I was wondering just how long this would take. I was tired, dead tired, and I just wanted to be asleep before dawn.

Brent’s opening speech was cut off by a doorbell ring. He blinked, surprised.

“Well, hide it!” I snapped, making my way to the door. The doorbell rang again. “Just a minute,” I yelled. Who in the world could be this obnoxious this late at night?

I pulled the door open to find a man I had never seen before blinking back at me from the other side.

“H…Hi,” he said timidly, awkwardly offering his hand for a second before hiding it back under his armpit. “I’m sorry to bother you this late at night, but I think maybe someone here has my gun.”

I sighed. Well hell, why not. “Brent!” I called back. “It’s for you.”

*                                                 *                                                     *

“So, uh, Mr. Pierce, you, uh, hunt vampires?”

“Guy van Hellsing,” he corrected me.

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Guy van Hellsing.”

I looked closely at his gun license, then back at him. “But this says your name is Dan Pierce.”

He snatched it back from me with a panicked look, then forced the calm, reserved expression back on his face. “That’s just my earthly name. But my soul’s name is Guy van Hellsing. So you see,” he explained, “my real name is Guy van Hellsing.”

I eyed him and then eyed the gun license he was stuffing back in his coat. “Right.”

“Anyway,” Brent cleared his throat. “Mr. Hellsing….”

Dan gave him a friendly smile. “You can call me Guy.”

“Okay, uh, Guy. How did you know to come here?”

“Oh, that!” He laughed out loud at how easy it had been. “I spent a few weeks cataloging all the cars that parked in that parking lot, since its so close to the Pizza Hut.”

“Which is infested by vampires.”

“Exactly. So, just to be safe, I eventually followed all the cars home. At first I thought you guys were the vampires, but since I can see that you’re breathing, I know you’re not.”

“Wow, how perceptive of you,” I forced false politeness. “But what if we had been vampires? Pretty stupid, don’t you think, just walking up and knocking on our door.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, thumping his chest with a clink. “I’m armed.”

“Wow, that makes me feel so much safer,” I answered.

He grinned smugly, oblivious to the shovel of sarcasm I had delivered that with. “I’m glad I could help.”

“So,” I continued, “is this vampire hunting thing a job or a hobby?”

Dan sighed. “Well, you got me there. It’s really just a hobby right now. The only way to get good money for it is to earn your way into a spot with the CIA or the Vatican.” He grinned optimistically. “But they’re always looking for talented free-lancers, so it shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“Right, sounds great. So besides that what do you do?”

Dan’s eyes narrowed and his hand reached inside his jacket where he had just hidden the gun. “Awfully nosy for a few friendly humans, don’t you think? Maybe you’re in league with them, hoping they’ll turn you so you can live forever?”

“No, no,” Brent said hurriedly, “he’s just making conversation.”

“Oh, ok.” Dan pulled his hand back out. “Well, I can’t tell you just yet. This place might be bugged. Once I check it over, we’ll be able to talk about such things.”

“Ok,” I continued. “So…. How many have you killed?”

“Four!” Dan said brightly. “Well, maybe just three.”

“You shot four people!” Brent said, shocked.

“No, no! They were vampires, not people! They didn’t leave a body, so they must’ve been vampires!”

“What do you mean by, ‘Maybe just three’?” I asked.

Dan looked a bit uncomfortable. “Well, like I said, they don’t leave bodies. I use garlic spray mostly, not bullets, and they never survive that. They just run off and go melt somewhere. There was one though, I don’t know if I got enough on him. But I probably did, so I’m counting it.”

“I see,” I replied, trying not to sound bored.

“Anyway,” Dan said standing up abruptly, “I need to be going . The best hunting’s at dawn, after all.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they’re weak then.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Anyway, I only have…” He took out his pocket watch and popped it open. “…about seventy-six minutes. I’d better get going.”

“Alright then,” I said standing up. The sooner we got the guy out of our hair, the better.

“Wait,” Brent said nervously, “maybe you should-”

“Don’t worry,” Dan answered, “I’ll drop by tomorrow to make sure you’re safe. No, don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.” And with that, he disappeared out the door.

“Tomorrow?” I repeated, then frowned down at Brent. “Nice work, dumb ass.”

“We can’t just leave him with that gun!”

“You were the one that gave it back to him.”

“But what if he kills someone?”

I sighed. “Look, drama-boy, he isn’t going to ‘kill’ anybody. You heard him: He’s going to run around and spray them with garlic sauce.”

Brent scowled. “But-”

“No buts,” I said. “Just let the bastard go.”

Brent sighed and flung himself down on the couch, rubbing his temples. He was probably trying to figure what he’d threaten to kill himself with now.

“Well, anyway,” I said, “I’m going to bed. I want to wake up before two, if possible. I get weird looks when I oversleep for second shift.”

“So what are we going to do tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” I asked.

“When Dan comes back.”

“Tomorrow,” I told him firmly, “we’re going to lock the doors and pretend we’re not home.”

Brent was halfway through his coffee when he looked up past me and went a little pale.

“Is Amy behind me?” I asked suspiciously. He shook his head. Which meant it was probably…

“Brent! Shades! How you guys doin’?” a voice said behind me. I turned around to find two rather tall, trench coat clad men grinning at me.

“Tony. Guido,” I answered in greeting. Brent gave them a nervous wave.

“We were wondering when you guys would show up,” Tony announced. “Scoot over, will ya?”

I shifted left on the bench, making room for Tony. Brent did the same for Guido. The two sat down, obliviously cheerful to their interruption. So much for a peaceful meal, I thought.

Antonio and Guido Sciacchitano. Those are their real names; I’ve seen their licenses. They were a pair of ‘bond officers’, a polite term for bounty hunters, who did the occasional bouncer gig because of the money it pays. Which means that usually they really are packing heat and, proving society’s total failure, they’re licensed to do it. I’m not certain how or why they ended up in this small-time city but they had managed to land a few cushy, weekend jobs at some of the more high-end clubs in town, which is how they paid rent. They ate and bought expensive coats by bringing in people who had jumped bail. I hadn’t asked how they afforded their car, and I’m not really planning to. I had more or less made their acquaintance while drinking too much a few months ago and Tony’s been clapping my back ever since.

Tony made himself comfortable beside me and clasped his hands together in front of him. “So, what brings you out tonight? Doesn’t look like you’re drinking much. Is somethin’ up?”

Brent grinned to be friendly, but ever since I told him they were armed he’s been nervous around them. “Nah, nothing much.”

“Nothin’? Really, that’s good. You guys ever have a problem, you come see me, got it?” He pointed to his chest. “I’ll take care of it.”

Well, he offered. “Actually, there was something,” I said. “We’re trying to figure out what to do about a gun.”

“A gun!” Tony’s eyes widened a little. He motioned us to lean closer. “You guys shouldn’t be thinking about a gun! You should stay clear of that stuff! You need someone taken out? I know some people who can take care of it. Fifty dollars, that’s it, and we didn’t hear nothin’.”

“Forty,” Guido piped up.

Tony glared at him. “You undercuttin’ me?”

“Sorry.”

Tony looked back at us. “Okay, thirty. But that’s only ‘cause we’re pals.” He sat back. “But I gotta tell ya, Brent, if it’s Amy, I can’t do it. I know she’s a bitch and all, but it goes against my principles to-”

“No, no,” I waved him down. “We don’t need to get a gun. We have one. We’re trying to get rid of it.”

“You have one?”

“Yeah, we-”

“What do you mean she’s a bitch?”

Tony looked at Brent, a little embarrassed. “Well, you know, she always had this attitude, and you were so pussy-whipped-”

Guido gave Tony a kick.

“I mean, uh, you were just always doing whatever she asked. And you were always, like, ‘yes dear,’ like you were some purse flapping fag or-”

“Tony!” I hissed.

“But uh, you know….” He floundered a bit. “I meant it in a good way?”

I didn’t say anything, just clenched my forehead in my hands. Why they let this guy carry a gun is beyond me.

Brent had gone even paler than before. “You mean she…”

“No, he didn’t,” I snapped at him before he could finish. “Now be quiet for a minute and let me take care of this.” Brent scowled but didn’t argue the point.

“So, anyway,” I said, directing Tony’s attention back to me before he said anything else stupid. “We have this gun. You don’t want it. Do you?”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Did you use it on someone?”

I sighed. What else could I have expected? “No we didn’t.” I quickly told him how we had acquired the gun, creatively enough that Brent was angry before I even finished.

Tony looked surprised. “So you took the gun?”

“That’s exactly what I said!” I shook my head. “Really, I can’t believe it.”

Tony nodded. “Yeah, I know.” He looked over at Brent and gave him a thumbs up. “Smart move. I wouldn’t have pegged you for it.”

I decided not to press the point. “If you want it we’ll just give it to you.”

Tony frowned. “Another gun might be a bit, uh, problematic right now, if you know what I mean. What kind of gun is it? Revolver or automatic? Is it a magnum?”

I thought about it for a minute. “When you pull the trigger, it fires.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything. It’s a hand gun, right?”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s no rifle or anything.”

“Okay,” Tony said. With surprising deftness, he pulled his gun from his coat. “Does it look like this?”

Guido’s eyes went wide and he jumped across the table, trying to shove the loaded gun back down.

“Relax, relax,” Tony said, still grinning confidently. “I’m keepin’ it low.”

“They sell beer here!” Guido hissed.

“Oh, yeah,” Tony said and the gun disappeared. “Did you get a look at it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And does the gun you have look like it?”

“Uh-uh.”

“At all?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Hmm… It’s probably a revolver then. I don’t really like them that much.” He thought for another second. “Sorry, man, but that’s just more trouble than its worth right now.”

“Right. But… uh… what do we do with it, then?”

Tony’s face twisted as he mulled it over, getting progressively more and more warped until he spouted out, about a minute later, “You could always ask the guy in the back.”

“Him?” I asked skeptically. “I feel like a sucker for just considering it.”

Tony shook his head vigorously. “Seriously, man, you should think about it. The guy knows everything. He’s the one that told me I should move here.”

Great credentials, I’m sure. “That’s it?”

Tony shrugged. “If I don’t need a gun, I usually don’t go and get one.” He leaned back in his chair and was silent for a good twenty seconds. Suddenly, his face lit up. “No, wait, I know what you could do!” he said excitedly. “You could grab the gun and then head to the local high school!”

“You mean the one downtown?”

“Right, they have this door in the back. It’ll be locked, but just shoot through the handle and it’ll swing right open! You’ll only have around twenty seconds after that, but if you’re fast, you’ll be fine. So you run in, throw the gun in a locker, then run out. Some guards might come running at that point. Once you get past them and by any other fuzz that shows up, you go home and lay low until the morning. Then you call up the FBI’s gun line, tell ‘em which locker it’s in, and then they pay you five hundred dollars!” Tony finished with a stupid grin on his face.

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite a plan. Did ‘Uncle Louie’ come up with that?”

“Nah,” he answered proudly. “I came up with that one myself.”

“Excuse me,” a waitress said, cutting Tony off before he could say anything else stupid and me before I could say anything rude. Tony leaned back, partly to give her room to put our pizzas down and partly to ogle her. She was polite enough to pretend not to notice.

“Thanks,” Brent said as she left.

“Pizza?” Tony said shaking his head. “That’s not real pizza. You should come visit me some time, and I’ll have my sister show you real pizza. Not this junk.” Tony scowled at our meal. “It pains me to see you guys eating like this. You know what you guys need? You guys need a nice girl who can cook for you.”

Brent flinched a little, and Tony looked at him, confused, before he realized he had stuck his foot in his mouth.

“Oh, man. I’m sorry,” he said. “Thinking before I speak, again.” He slapped the table. “Hey, look, its okay. You’re better off without her. Uncle Louie always told me it’s better to be single when you’re young, and he’s right. Girls are nothin’ but trouble. Like, I had this girl a couple years ago. Callin’ me all the time. Comin’ over all the time to cook. Takin’ up all the room in the bed. It was hell, man, I tell you.”

“I’m sure it was,” Brent grated out through clenched teeth.

“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe,” Tony went on cheerfully. “And there was this other girl. Touchin’ me all the time, no sex, though we did that some too. Just hugging me, and kissing me, and rubbing my shoulders. It’s like, I come home from dragging some guy’s sorry ass back to jail, and I want a Martini and a good show on TV, not some woman pawing at my back.

“I mean, seriously, am I a man or not? And every girl I’ve had was like that, clingy, and talking, and wanting attention. And it seems like I’ve had dozens of these girls. But I tell you the worst.” He leaned forward to make sure we were listening. “The worst was this girl I was dating for the last three months. I dumped her, just couldn’t deal with her. She was always pressing me about when our anniversary was, and were we going to get married, and always wanted to sleep over. I couldn’t get any privacy, man, it was horrible. And not even a diamond ring would shut her up. Just made her worse. ‘Oh, I love you so much.’ And that bullshit. Just had to drop, her man. It was just too much.”

Tony leaned back in his chair. “Like my Uncle Louie always said, a man’s gotta have man time, y’know? So see?” he said, finishing his point. “Women are just trouble, I tell you. Lay ‘em and leave ‘em, that’s what Uncle Louie always said.”

Brent stood up, smacking the table with his palm, glaring down at Tony. He seemed about to say something, but then he just turned and stalked off, almost knocking Guido out of the way as he did.

Tony looked around dumbfounded. “What’d I say?”

Café Yoko’s is a small café on the edge of downtown with pay-by-the-hour-but-no-one-does-so-it’s-free parking, which is always nice. A table’s usually not too hard to find and, most importantly, its open twenty-four hours; which made it one of our favorite places to hang out.

It was a little over three years ago when I first walked into the joint and my first impression was that late night Café Yoko’s only had two things going for it; half-naked goth chicks and outdoor scenery. I haven’t had to revise that impression yet, and probably never will. It’s still a haven to late night social misfits and its front porch still has dozens of white Christmas tree lights strung overhead, giving the entire place a gentle, unobtrusive glow. I’ve spent many a night leaning back in my chair and gazing up at the ceiling as those lights filtered through my beer addled brain.

When we got to Café Yoko’s that night the place was already in full swing. A few of the tables already had a full crowd; talking, joking, flirting. One of the groups seemed to be preparing for a full scale production and was holding tryouts for the role of the tragic heroine. A few boys were vying for the opposite lead, probably hoping to sympathize the winner into bed. On the whole it was a pretty noisy affair, but this was standard for Café Yoko’s, so no one even bothered looking at them.

“You know Brent, you put them all to shame,” I muttered under my breath as we passed. He scowled at me.

We got to the door and looked around. There were no empty tables inside and the porch was filling up fast. “Well, shit,” I muttered. “Grab a table. I’ll get our drinks. What do you want?”

“Coffee and a pizza.”

I gave him a look. “Coffee?”

“Yes, coffee,” he said distractedly. He was busy looking around the café like a scared rabbit.

“Your loss, man.” I wanted to say something else, something about his unhealthy obsession with Amy, but at least he wasn’t actively trying to hide. I guess he really couldn’t help but worry about seeing her and nothing I could say would help. But the coffee, at least, I could do something about. Coffee? How about an Irish Coffee.

It took ten minutes to get the drinks and when I got back, Amy still hadn’t manifested and Brent still hadn’t relaxed. He seemed grateful enough though, when I sat down and passed him his mug. I put the metal stand with the laminated number “12” taped to the top between us, our identifier to the wait-staff, and slumped back in my chair. He was waiting for me to say something while I was waiting for him to take a drink.

“So how much do I owe you?” he asked.

“One-twenty five, as usual.”

He nodded again, still looking into the coffee. I don’t know if he was deep in thought or simply avoiding looking around in case Amy appeared. “You know,” he said finally, “it’s just not fair.”

I braced myself. This was going to go one of two ways. Either he would start in about his major not being worth anything or he would start from high school and complain about his luck with girls. I had hoped dragging him here might shake him out of his suicidal mood.

“I mean really,” he continued when I didn’t say anything, “all we ever do now is go to bars. I hardly drank before I met you.”

Now that caught me flat-footed, but I couldn’t help but grin. “You should thank me. All you did freshmen and sophomore year was sit at home and download porn.”

“It wasn’t porn. I needed those pictures for my life drawing class.”

“Sure.”

He hadn’t really heard me but he grinned anyway. It was a sad grin, though. “You know, there was a girl in art class I hung out with some….”

Christ, was he pre-programmed or something? “Yeah. Julie wasn’t it? You’ve mentioned her before.” I was hoping that would cut him off. They had been a couple, sort of. They looked like a couple, at least. Julie had been quite an attractive girl and I remembered staring at her around campus, wondering why she was hanging out with such a loser. Admittedly, I still kind of wonder. Brent wasn’t exactly a loser, per se, but he was kind of pathetic. “You haven’t told me a lot, though. Weren’t you just friends?”

Brent didn’t answer immediately. “I think she liked me.”

I stopped to consider this. That made sense. But whenever he talked about it, it always sounded like he was just following her around like puppy. “What makes you say that now?”

He shrugged. “I’ve just been thinking. Ever since Sara broke up with me, I’ve been wondering why I’ve had such a shitty luck with girls.”

No balls? “And you’ve decided what?”

“That maybe I haven’t. Maybe my luck hasn’t been that bad. Maybe I simply haven’t acted…” He let his voice trail off. “It’s just when I think about; things she said, things she did.”

“Such as?”

Brent was quiet for a few moments before answering. “Going to lunch with me, hanging out with me. She always made it a point to walk with me if we went somewhere during class. And she hinted at things… I just don’t understand how I missed it all.”

He went silent, so I spoke up. “Well, maybe you weren’t attracted. I mean, whenever you mentioned her, I wondered why you didn’t try anything.”

“I have no idea. Looking back… I just managed to convince myself she couldn’t possibly be interested.” Brent was still looking at his coffee, which was probably too cool to be any good now. “I mean, if I knew then what I did now…. Or just had more self-confidence.” He shook his head. “I suppose I should thank you for that, at least. I don’t think I ever could have walked up to Amy if you hadn’t been pushing me to make an idiot out of myself with every girl we met.”

“I wonder if you should really thank me for that.”

Brent shook his head. “I think I’m going to need a beer,” he said, then took a drink of his Irish coffee.

I laughed. “I already took care of that, actually.”

Brent put the mug down. “No, I mean after the Irish coffee. Seriously, how many times have you pulled this? If I actually wanted real coffee, I’d buy it myself.”

I frowned. I was getting predictable, was I? “I’ll have to come up with something else then.”

“Still just one-twenty five, right?”

I grinned at him slightly, a little impressed. “Sure. But before you get too wasted, we still have to figure out what to do with the gun.”

Brent took another drink and nodded. “Couldn’t we ask the guy in the back?”

“You mean Dali-Llama man? Mr. Sit-on-a-table-and-pretend-to-be-one-with-the-coffee?”

“I don’t know if I’d say it like that, but yeah, him. I mean, why not?”

I frowned. “Because I’m not going to buy him something so he can think of something I would have anyway?”

Brent shrugged. “A lot of people seem to like his advice. You’ve seen the line on Fridays, right?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen any of them driving a new sports car, have you?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works. Besides, have you seen anyone going back to complain?”

“But still….” I trailed off, watching Brent take another drink. It occurred to me he had probably gone to the guy himself, though I could barely remember the last time he went somewhere without me having to drag him out. “Ah, hell. Maybe you’re right. How bad could his advice be? I mean, look at the racket he’s got going.”

The whole Waffle House thing was mostly my fault.

Mostly.

It had been a bad night. My boss yelled at me at work for my co-workers incompetence. My parents had called to check up on me and that had ended in a fight. And then, against all reason, Amy called to blame me for keeping Brent out until all hours of the night. The only person that hadn’t pissed me off was Brent himself, although I could tell he was trying not to get angry about me fighting with his girlfriend.

So when our waiter decided a snide remark about my sunglasses would be funny, I was in no mood for it.

I would have let it go at that, too, if he had actually done his job. But he came by, got our drink orders, made some remark about the inside lighting not being quite that bright and then left. He spent the next five minutes pointing in our direction and laughing with the cook and finally, ten minutes later, he came back with our drinks. “So what’ll it be?” he asked, still grinning at whatever joke he had made at our expense.

Why’d it take so long to get our drinks when we were one of only three tables in the restaurant? What story was so funny that he had to spend ten minutes explaining it to the cook? I had no idea but I decided not to bring it up. All I wanted right now was something hot and cheap to eat and not to have to worry about the dishes. Brent made his order, the chili and something or another, and I got the grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of tomato soup. The waiter’s face twitched a little at that. I guess he figured he wouldn’t get much of a tip when we were ordering that cheap. But then he grinned again, that stupid obnoxious grin of his. “Is the no blood version okay?” he asked. I turned and looked at him. I didn’t say anything, just looked at him until he realized he had screwed up. “Fine, that’s cool,” he said. “Be right up.” And then he slunk away.

It escalated from there.

It was a miserable meal. Brent didn’t say anything, not used to dealing with a pissy waiter, and was obviously wishing he had simply stayed at home with a cup of ramen. When our food finally arrived it was cold, mostly because the jerk-off waiter was more concerned about talking to his co-workers than doing his job. I asked for the check that moment and polished off my meal in five minutes. I let Brent finish off his, which took another five, and then immediately went and paid for my food. It was about five dollars which, if our waiter had kissed our feet when we walked in, would have netted him a buck. But I didn’t leave it on the table. Hell, no. I had plans for those quarters.

Brent’s check was a little more than six and he half-heartedly tossed a dollar on the table. I picked it up and handed it back to him. “He doesn’t get a tip.”

“What?”

“I said he doesn’t get a tip. Not for standing in the corner and playing with himself when he should have been bringing our food.”

“But they get paid like three dollars an hour.”

“And he worked like he was worth it. He doesn’t get a tip.”

Brent obviously agreed but was too passive to throw a penny on the table and stalk off. He put the dollar back in his wallet uncertainly, but looked relieved. “Hey,” I said before he put his wallet back in his pocket. “You got any quarters?”

“Quarters? Why?”

I didn’t answer but he handed them over anyway. Looking down at the coins in my hand, I smirked.

I walked up to our waiter, eight quarters in my hand, and spread them out so he could count them. “See these?” I said. “These should have been your tip. But since you obviously didn’t want it, I’m going to give you something better.” I walked over to the jukebox. “I’m going to give you a song. In fact, I’m going to give you lots of songs.”

I stuck the eight quarters in the jukebox, hit a random song, and then hit the Waffle House Song. And then the Waffle House Song. And then the Waffle House Song again.

I’m actually not certain how many times I pressed it. I didn’t know how many plays I could get for two dollars, so I just hit it ten times and figured that would cover it. When I finished I turned around, gave our waiter a grin and the finger, and then stalked out. Brent followed close on my heels.

And that’s why we’ve sworn off Waffle House, at least until they get some new staff. Chances are they had to just sit and listen to all ten plays of the Waffle House Song. It’s obnoxious when you just hear it once, but ten times….

Apparently, it really pisses people off. Because last time we tried to eat there we heard the cook trying to convince the waitress to ‘accidentally’ spill hot coffee on us.

Okay, that part’s actually kind of funny.

Brent wasn’t kidding about his shit job. It is the shit job. He’s kind of the gopher boy at Wal-Mart. Check out, aisle seven. Stock, aisle eight. Puke up, aisle nine. Everybody just dumps the jobs they don’t want to deal with on him. If he’d just tell them all to fuck off and do it themselves, he’d be a lot happier.

I can practically see how this went.

He usually finished around midnight, just before the stockers come in to do their part. This time, he marched out the door at 12:15, right on schedule, and low and behold; there’s a guy sitting on his car.

So Brent walked up to him and gave him a look. Then he waited a good five minutes before finally saying something. “Umm, excuse me, that’s my car.”

The guy popped his neck and then turned around to take a look at Brent. He stared at him for a full minute, not blinking once, before he turned back around.

Brent had no idea what to make of this, so he decided to try again. “That’s my car,” he said trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Could you get off it so I can leave?”

Finally, the guy actually responded. “But I’m hunting vampires.”

Brent took enough time to blink. “Come again.”

“I’m hunting vampires!” the guy said it in a petulant whine, sick of having to repeat himself. “If you drive it away, where am I going to sit?”

He said this, by the way, in a parking lot. Full of cars.

I can only imagine what Brent was thinking right then. Me, I’d get in the car, turn it on, and go fast in reverse. Brent chose the passive-aggressive approach. “Uh, somebody else’s car, maybe?”

The guy actually stopped watching the Pizza Hut door not move and turned around. “But this place is perfect,” he explained. “It’s the only place in the whole parking lot where I’m close enough to see the door and where I can see him before he sees me. Do you expect me to just stand here until someone else parks?”

Brent looked around the parking lot for a second, wishing there was someone else to help reason with the nutcase. “That might be best.” The guy showed no reaction, just kept watching him. “I mean, I really need to get home.” He still didn’t do anything. “Fine,” Brent said finally and reached for the door.

And that’s when Brent almost shat himself, because just as his hand touched the door-handle the guy jumped off the hood and pulled out a gun. “You’re with them, aren’t you?” he screamed in Brent’s face. “Damn you, you sell out! How much did they pay you?”

“But… I don’t…”

“How much did they pay you?”

I’m still not certain why the guy was harping on that fact. Anyway, so Brent was saying his prayers, expecting he was about to meet his maker, when a cop car across the street turned its lights on. As soon as the guy saw it he let out a bloodcurdling scream and ran like hell. “It wasn’t me!” he yelled as he dropped the gun. “It wasn’t me!”

The funny part is that the cop car was going after a speeder. I don’t think he even noticed the screaming lunatic.

* * *

I pounded the table with my hand, laughing my ass off. Brett looked embarrassed, but mostly pissed. I understood why; I could have been more sympathetic about it, but what for?

“Okay, okay,” I said, catching my breath. “But you took the gun?”

“Yeah,” Brent said, staring hard at the floor, embarrassed.

“Why?”

“Well, I could hardly leave it lying around, could I?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Brett gave me this look, like I was suggesting kicking kittens. “And leave a gun lying outside of Wal-Mart so some guy can grab it and go shoot the place up? I can just see the headline now: ‘Entire staff slain in store robbery.’ And I’d be to blame.”

I made that teethy sound you make whenever you’re blowing somebody’s bad suggestion away. “C’mon, with a pee shooter like that? They have the hunting department, right? They have assault rifles back there, right? Any guy who tries to rob them at gun point will get himself shot.”

Brent shook his head. “That requires a manager’s key and he could be stuck at the front of the store.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Then you’re down a few ass-holes. What’s the problem? You don’t like them anyways.”

Brent scowled. “Anyway, after I put the gun in the car, I started thinking about him. That crazy guy, running around, chasing vampires, or whatever.”

“Yeah, so? Why’d that make you want to kill yourself?”

“Because even though he’s running around like a lunatic, he’s still doing more with his life than I am. At least he thinks he’s doing some good. All I do is sit around and watch TV. I’m single, working a shit job, cursed….” He looked up at me miserably.

Oh yeah. The curse thing again. Brent thinks he’s cursed. We’ll deal with that later.

I was thinking about what to say when I noticed he wasn’t looking at me miserably anymore, but at the gun.

“Brent,” I warned him. “You so much as touch that gun, so help me, I will beat the shit out of you. Understand?”

*                                                                                *                                                                                            *

For all of Brent’s nail-biting, the problem didn’t solve itself in the next half hour. So there the gun sat, like some unwanted prop at the end of a play, waiting for someone to do something with it. We couldn’t just leave it in the trash – the garbage men wouldn’t be coming by until next Tuesday – and I definitely didn’t want to leave it lying around the house over the weekend. Brent always got really bad on Friday nights, and if he got bad enough I might be tempted to use it.

After a minute’s thought I decided that, since the gun wasn’t going anywhere, and if we decided to do anything we should wait a few hours anyway, we might as well use our time wisely. “Let’s get something to eat,” I said.

Brent gave me an are-you-out-of-your-mind look and then said, “What about the gun?”

“What about it?”

“Shouldn’t we take care of it now?”

I shrugged. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Well, no, not really.”

“And neither do I. So let’s go someplace else, think about it for a while, and then do something when we come back.” I pulled on my black, leather jacket. “A few hours isn’t going to make much of a difference.”

“I’m not hungry,” Brent answered, curling up on the couch and preparing to sulk.

“I don’t care. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving you here alone with the gun. You’re going.”

“But…”

“No.”

Brent looked up at me. He still hadn’t quite figured out why, even when he said “no”, I could still strong-arm him into doing something by sheer force of will. “Fine,” he said, standing up and grabbing his coat. “Where are we going?”

“It’s two in the morning. Where do you think we’re going?”

Brent made a face. “Waffle House still isn’t an option, is it?”

“Not unless you like rat poison in your chili.”

“Café Yoko’s, then? But…but…” His face went from annoyed to miserable. “Amy might be there.”

I shook my head. He was so pathetic sometimes. Avoiding a place simply because there was the small possibility that a girl he didn’t want to see might be there. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t have to. By mutual consent, Brent and I had long ago cut that scene.

It only took him seconds to get his act back together. “All right, let’s go. But could you take the sun-glasses off while we’re driving? You can barely see out of them; we could crash and get killed or something.”

I rolled my eyes. “You need to lay off the daytime soaps, drama boy,” I answered. “We’ll be fine. Now shut up and get in the car.”

Brent stood over me, a gun pointed at his head.

He always was a melodramatic little shit.

“I’ll do it!” he said, eyes bulging. He pulled the hammer back for emphasis. “I’m serious this time.”

I looked up at him, both annoyed and angry. And a little worried, I admit.

“I’m serious!” he repeated.

“Now why would you want to do that?” I asked, trying not to let him hear my annoyance. I’d found that this was the best answer whenever he flipped out on me. A part of me really wanted to call his bluff, but I knew better than that. Last time I had tried it, I ended up driving him to the emergency room. He had opened a vein in his wrist, and I had had to fight him down from a second, more fatal cut.

It’s amazing just how stubborn he can be when he wants to be right.

Then, it had been something about a chick and a checkbook, but this time? Well, this time, I was waiting to find out.

Brent still hadn’t said anything, his face was stuck making contortions. We’d done this so many times you’d think he’d have the script memorized by now. But maybe he meant it this time; maybe he really had finally hit the edge. He looked like he really did want to shoot himself.

“I just can’t take it anymore,” he said finally.

“You mean the break up between you and Amy?”

“No, damn it. That doesn’t matter anymore!” he sounded exasperated.

It had last week, I thought, but didn’t say it. “So what then?”

“This shit job, this shit life!” he lowered the gun and instead placed it under his arm. “There’s no meaning, no point! I mean, we hold down a crappy job at Wal-mart, and for what? So we can die at sixty while stocking the toy section?”

“Maybe. But even if you’re right, why end it any sooner than you have to?” There were usually a few lines before this one, but I had an opening, and it seemed stupid not to use it.

Brent went back to the script and slumped down into his chair. He dropped the gun to the floor and put his head in his hands. “I don’t know. It just hurts, you know, to be here and not do anything. Just sitting here, day after day, waiting for something to happen, always alone.” He looked down at the floor, going quiet. That more or less ended the scene and, thankfully, he didn’t expect me to add anything.

It always made me uncomfortable when Brent cracked like this. He needed a girlfriend for this type of work, not me. And Amy had broken up with him because he “hadn’t shared himself enough.” Really, it was because he wasn’t an asshole and Amy was really just looking for an excuse to be miserable.

Really, though, that was Brent’s problem. He just wasn’t an asshole and to participate in a social circle full of drinkers and minimum wage workers you had to be one. He really was just a nice guy, maybe a bit of a ham, but a nice guy none the less.

Dude, you need to get laid, I thought. I didn’t tell him that, of course. That would have just started the whole scene over again. But then something occurred to me that should have been bothering me from the beginning.

“Wait a minute, where’d you get the gun?”