The Outside

Section X

 Two men stand in the broken down doorway gazing in. I set the axe down in the hallway quietly behind me. They didn't seem to have noticed.

"Hello." I greet them coldly

"Howdy." The fatter of the two hails back. He's heavyset and wearing blue, jean overalls over a stained white t-shirt.

"What are you doing here?"

"We got paid to drop off a paintin'."

"I didn't pay you."

"Maybe not. Still gotta job to do."

"You're not allowed in."

"Yer not from aroun' 'ere are you?"

"A bit further south."

"How far?"

"Down in the glove."

"Ah, so yer a troll."

"And you're a native yuper then?"

"'Fraid so."

"Why do you ask?"

"Yer mannerisms n' shit."

"My mannerisms?"

"Yeah. Real posh. Real delicate."

"It's called having class."

"S'called bein' some rich bastard from down below that uses words like 'ettiquette' and 'wintering' somewhere."

"I hold myself to a standard. Maybe you should try doing the same."

"I'm sorry if I'm 'ffending you, yer Highness."

"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it."

The man's skinny buddy joins in, "That was sarcasm, dipshit."

"I know it was sarcasm, you classless grease-monkey. I was informing him that it's in his best interest to show a little bit of class."

The fat one chimes in again, "An' what if I don'?"

"How about you do and don't find out?"

"No. Really. Tell me what yer gonna do, fat cat."

"Fat cat. Hmmph. Odd that someone with your considerable heft should call anyone 'fat cat'."

"I'm gonna break you like an overpaid twig."

"It'd be lovely to see you try. In the meanwhile, you can leave and come back in a month or so when I'm gone to do your menial labor."

The skinny one joins in again, "Why you talkin' like that?"

"Like what?"

The fat one takes the opportunity to jump in, "Like some fancified faggot."

"You shouldn't use words like that."

"'N Why not?"

"Because it reinforces stereotypes."

"Maybe the gays should have that stereotype inforced."

"I meant the stereotype of the offensive, crude, lewd, loud-mouthed classless yuper."

"S'that so?"

"'Tis indeed."

The fat one nods his head slowly, chewing something. Then he says, "Let's deliver this paintin' an' get the hell outta here."

The two depart and come back a moment later with a large canvas in tow. They set the painting down, leaning against the wall. I gasp when I see whose face is glaring from the canvas.

"Who paid you?" I ask aggressively.

The fat one scrunches his eyebrows together in a puzzled expression, "I don't really know. And I don't care either."

"I want to know who sent this."

"Why you wanna know so bad?"

"It's a picture of my dad."

"This is a picture of yer dad?"

"Indeed."

"Who are you?"

"Edgar James Garret." I say, knowing the storm soon to follow.