Author's Note - I make reference to the Main Character and his homie as being Westies, a reference to the neighborhood or hood they grew up in, which is depicted as being tough. This is a completely fictitious place and bears no reference to any place here on Earth. Alien Westies will just have to suck it up. Actually, I think I am good, cardinal directions (north, south, east, and west) are not used in Space.
I walk into Murphy's Pub and am surprised to see my friend John. John doesn't come to this part of town to drink, so this is odd. John and I get together about once a month just to hang out, but not here. We grew up together on the West End, a rough neighborhood, but he is probably the nicest guy I know. We are as close as brothers, maybe closer. His wife Heather is a gorgeous woman who is the love of his life. Looking across the bar at him, you would have thought someone shot his dog.
I wave at Brian, the owner of Murphy's. I flag him that I am headed over to sit with John. He will have one of the waitresses bring over my usual beer. I'm a regular.
"Hey bro', what are you doing in this dump?" I joke as I walk up to the booth where John is sitting. Murphy's is a very nice traditional Irish Pub somehow displaced in the U.S.
"Holy shit, Keith. I can't believe I ran into you here," he says. A smile replaces the sad expression on his face. He stands, and we do the awkward bro' hug before we sit back down.
"I've been coming in here since the place opened. Best shepherd's pie in town," I say. "Thanks, Sarah," I say as the waitress places my beer on the table.
"Order of shepherd's pie, Keith?" She asks.
"Yeah, make that two," I say. Guessing by the look on John's face when I walked in, he hasn't eaten this evening, if at all today.
"Sure thing, Keith," she smiles, gives a long sideways look at John, raises an eyebrow to me, and leaves to place our order. Sara is a cutie, single, and if John wasn't married I would suggest they date.
"Uh, shit, Keith, I wish you hadn't done that. I'm really not that hungry." John comments.
"John, I could see you're in a shit state from across the room. I got you no matter what the fuck you're dealing with. You need to bury bodies. We'll use my shovel. You need to kill someone. I'll help you plan it with alibies, so no one is going to jail. Whatever you're dealing with, I got you, and right now, you need to eat," I say, slipping back into the accent of the old neighborhood.
John stares at me for a moment, then starts to laugh. His laughter turns into tears after about 30 seconds.
I am sitting across the booth from him, thinking, what the fuck? Is Heather divorcing him or something?
John calms down after a moment, grabs a napkin out of the holder on the table, and wipes his eyes.
"Sorry about that," he apologizes.
"Hey, you're obviously dealing with some heavy shit. No need to apologize. Is Heather divorcing you?" I venture.
"I wish," he chuckles. "She comes home tonight and tells me that she is going out on a date with her boss," John says, taking a drink of his beer.
"You're fucking kidding me," I say in disbelief.
"No, says that if I don't let her do this that she'll divorce me. Says she'll take half the value of my company which will force me to sell it, and she'll get to fuck any guy she wants anyway. She says my best option is to just let her have her fun, and I can keep my company, and she'll still be my wife when she is not entertaining her boss. Says the law is on her side, with the divorce laws being what they are in this state," John stops and takes another drink of beer.
"What are you going to do?" I ask the obvious question.
"I don't know. I just had to get out of the house. I just started driving and saw this place, and came in here to get a beer and feel sorry for myself," he says.
"Well, since she hasn't filed for divorce, you can sell the company to an overseas corporation, and it won't be considered part of any community property. You have to do it before she files, however, and lists it as a marital asset. Also, you should kick her out of the house now to show that you're not fine with her fucking around on you. You didn't happen to record the conversation you had with her when she told you that she was going out on a date with her boss, did you?" I ask.
"No, I was just in shock, really. I wandered out of the house before she even left to go fuck that asshole," he explains.
"Who is this guy?" I ask.
"Terrance Mervin, Attorney at Law," he replies.
"Fuckin' great, some half-assed lawyer," I joked.
"Yeah, go figure," he says.
"Okay, I was thinking we head back to your house and change the locks and throw her shit out, but now you're going to have to play actor, be nice to her, and get her to confess to fucking her boss. Once you have that recorded, we can admit it as evidence, and the divorce will go in your favor. Emotional blackmail is a real thing in this State. So, we can get her on that. You're still going to have to sell your company to an overseas corporation. Sorry, buddy," I offer.
"Doesn't she have to be informed that she is being recorded?" John asks.
"Not in this State. For two reasons. One, it will be in your house, and two, this is a one-party State, where only one party has to know that the conversation is being recorded," I explain.
"Hey, this is really helpful, Keith," John thanks me.
"I may be a shitty lawyer, but I have my moments," I joke. I'm actually a pretty good lawyer. I have just been involved in some really awful cases.
"Your problem is that you're an honest lawyer, Keith," John jokes.
Our shepherd's pie arrives, and John devours his. Obviously, he is in a better mood.
We finish our dinner and refine our plan. I start drinking sodas, as I can see, I'm going to have to take John home as he has had too many beers. I get him home. Then I park my car down the street and wait.
Around 3 AM, a Benz sedan pulls up, and Heather gets out. She kisses the driver several times before staggering to the door. I follow the Benz through town to one of the nicer neighborhoods. I remember that Heather is a paralegal or a law clerk working for a law firm. I am surprised that I don't know which one as there aren't that many law firms in our town. I work in Corporate/Real Estate Law, so I assume our paths have just never crossed.
The car pulls into the driveway of a nice mini-mansion and into the garage. I think that my opportunity to kick this guy's ass has passed when I see him bringing the garbage cans out onto the curb. What Heather sees in this guy, I have no idea. He is older and overweight. He must be able to string a good line of bullshit to be able to get into Heather's pants. I pull a baseball cap I found in the car down over my brow, and slip on my gloves. I look up and down the street, and at 4 AM in suburbia, no one is around. This guy is going to get his ass monkey stomped.
I know what you are thinking, a lawyer risking his career just to beat someone's ass on behalf of another friend. John and I grew up where you take care of each other, and if someone needs their ass kicked, it gets kicked. Those rules still apply. I truly believe that is a big problem in the modern world, not enough people are getting their asses kicked. Too many people think they can get away with shit, like this asshole, fucking John's wife, and not suffering the consequences. Well, asshole, you're about the meet the consequences.
He is walking back to the house, in a dark area between the garage and the house when I kick the back of his knees, and he goes down.
"What th..." is all he gets out before I hit him in the face with my gloved hand. I grab his collar for leverage and pound his face about five times. He isn't even able to raise his hands in defense as he is so overwhelmed by the violence of my attack. Fucking fat, pompous lawyer used to suing people to get his way. Welcome to the streets, motherfucker.
I step back as he lay on the ground. I take a kick at his groin. He fucked another man's wife. You have to take a shot at his junk. It's the law. I don't make good contact. I will have to try again. He rolls onto his side.
"Don't fuck another man's wife," I say in a bad imitation of a Batman voice. Trying hard to keep my native accent out of my voice. That will be a dead giveaway.
