The Beginning

Nicky

"Thank you for meeting me." I greeted my second favorite cousin, Marcelo.

"Why?" Marc whimpered, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"Why what?" Roni questioned from behind us.

Marcelo, startled, leapt just so. "Jesus. You didn't tell me you brought the devil with you."

"Fuck off." Roni's fist hammered Marc's shoulder.

"Why did you have me follow this guy?" He nodded toward the dilapidated trailer home, while he comforted his shoulder with a cupped hand.

"The dude from the bar?" Roni questioned critically.

"He's a pervert." I shrugged shallowly.

"Say less." Marc's fatigue had been overtaken by enthusiasm. "Do you know how long it's been?"

"Are you doing this because it's the right thing or because you want to impress that girl?" Roni asked.

"Two things can be true." I replied flatly.

"What girl?" Marc wondered, placing the back of his hand against my chest. "You going with that girl already?" A grin peeled his lips back over his teeth slowly. "Nicky, Nicky, Nicky. Why are you always trying to settle down? It's called play time."

"You're a disgusting person." Roni bit.

"It's not like that." I figured I'd better play it safe after the conversation I had with Miss Independent.

Marcelo deflated. "Another one?" He questioned defeatedly. "You have to stop dating women that pretend you don't exist."

"Will you focus?" I barked.

Marcelo placed a foot on the cinderblock that acted as a step into Dale's home. He checked the handle. Celebrating with the pump of his brows, he let us inside.

Dale lay half on the couch, snoring thunderously. Both legs hung off the couch, though his feet were stabilized on the floor beneath him. His white short sleeved shirt had been caked in dirt and pulled up over his substantially sized stomach. Blue jeans had gotten the same treatment but had been unbuttoned and unzipped so that his grabby hands fit down the front. His white and red patterned baseball cap appeared to have slipped off his balding head mid-slumber.

Roni turned the lock on the door behind us.

Marcelo wound up clownishly before his open hand fell hard against Dale's bare stomach.

Dale jolted awake. His legs became weak causing his weight to hit the floor. "I'm not drunk!" Dale shouted, dumbfounded. His eyes, through slits, bounced between the three of us.

"Hey Dale." I greeted, examining the countertop to my right. Jugs and water bottles full of odorous, decomposing urine were scattered about. Loose half-smoked cigarettes overflowed from the three ashtrays in sight. Shifting a worn headlamp to the left and a sticky construction glove to the right, I located an adjustable wrench and a hammer. I opted for the heavier of the two.

Fatigue wore off, allowing Dale's reality to fully set in. "Who—I didn't do anything."

"That's not true." Marc blew a raspberry. "You better quit lying."

"You're the guy from the bar." He pointed a dirty finger at me.

"You're the guy who touches women." I retorted unable to stop the immediate instinct to swing.

The face of the hammer cracked against his wrist. Dale let out a wail that, somehow, comforted me. His pleas were garbled by the tears and snot that bubbled out of him. "I was just messing around." He squeaked, cradling his hand.