Tell your story

I was sitting in a filthy vomit stained interrogation room smelling of stale lousy coffee with a whiff of urine. The detective chewing on a breath mint slammed the desk. “Tell your story.”

“Easy come, easy go, that's what they tell me. Easy peasy just pick up the truck and deliver it to some business associates, he says. I guess I should have asked what was in the back, I guess I have should have been more curious about being paid in cash, I guess I should have done a lot of things. You should always know better when someone asks a favor and then pays you in cash. Large crisp bills too, not like those wrinkly dog-eared ones that have been sitting around in your wallet, but like what you see on TV in those crime shows where the drug dealers, the gangsters all have large wads of cash stuffed in their pockets to pay the lackeys. Is that what I am a lackey?”

“How many days did it take a pot smoking, bicycle seat sniffing, piece of guacamole stained humanity like yourself to memorize that fairy tale? From the beginning. Leave out the bullshit.”

“So I drive the truck, didn’t know the taillights were out and you guys stopped me. I don’t have a license or the registration; you all get a bit angry. I think you all should look in to anger management classes. Then you look in the back and well, there you have it. This morning it was all his, now it’s all yours. He’s gonna be pissed. He don’t like to lose. He likes his revenge, likes to have what was taken returned. If anything happens to me, he did it.”