Bicycle Rider in Park

Beware the Pedaler – Part One

by VJ Miller, Sr.

A malignant narcissist chooses the wrong geek to throw trash at who then plans extreme psychological vengeance.

Beware the Pedaler – a Psychological Thriller

It was a simple act… simple and thoughtless. Truth to tell, thoughtless act should have been Bart Tredan’s middle name. He made a career of such acts; the unsettling part being he was damned proud of it too. Sober saw him at least bearable but after a few beers even his closest friends (which you could count on one fist) found him hard to stomach. If they’d been told of the act by a total stranger they’d have said, “Yeah, that’s Bart all right; asshole to the max.”

12:22 AM; Bart was on his way home from the bar in the southwest corner of New Mexico. He’d not had so much to drink that he was impaired in any way but enough to make him just that much more thoughtless. The orange and yellow reflectorized vest in the distance caught his eye on the stretch of dark road. The saddlebag baskets on the back of the bicycle labeled the rider a geek, at least in Bart’s frame of mind.

Bart fondled the half empty can of beer at his crotch while he approached the bicycle rider who jounced and bounced along the pothole-littered shoulder of the road. Bart slowed his truck to match the rider’s speed. Without so much as a teaspoonful of compassion he launched the can out the side window and sped off. In his mirror Bart saw the can hit the rider in the face. The shock and surprise in the rider’s face brought a nasty giggle to Bart’s own.

When the rider lost his balance, spun out of control and went over the handlebars into the dust-laden ditch along the side of the road Bart could contain his raucous laughter no longer; laughing so hard he ran halfway over the double yellow. If the driver in the 87 Eldorado with the rusted-out quarter panel and one mismatched fender hadn’t yanked his wheel into the ditch, St. Gabriel might have had two more callers that night. What’d he care if the geek got hurt?

Eight hours later:

The staccato hammering in his head jerked Bart awake that Saturday morning after. In the twilight world of semi-sleep, he incorrectly assumed the noise was in his head. Too much beer after he’d gotten home last night, he falsely conjectured. The hammering persisted, raising his consciousness to a higher level. Somewhere deep in the gray matter some under-worked department of deduction came to the conclusion that the hammering came not from his head but the front door. Forcing his eyes open a notch he gazed upon the south view of his living room wall; he’d fallen asleep in his chair again. Stiff and sore he pulled himself up out of the lounge chair. This better be good.

The low angle early morning sun crashing over the threshold when he yanked open the door snapped shut his half open blood shot eyes in self-defense.

“Good morning neighbor,” came the bubbly effervescent voice all too loudly to Bart’s ear.

Forcing one reddened eye open a crack he met the hazy visage of a skinny, balding man in his early forties. A gray fedora stuck to the back of his head with an equally gray flannel suit hanging loosely below his face. When the haze coalesced to a sharper focus Bart saw a half-smoked Camel (that bobbed up and down when he spoke) tucked in the corner of the man’s mouth.

“Wadda you want?”

“Why I’m here to demonstrate for you a great new product that’s guaranteed to save you and the little lady time, trouble and effort. Yessiree. My card.”

Bart’s one nearly visible severely constricted iris was so mesmerized by that bobbing cigarette butt that his ears never caught a word. “What?” tripped stupidly off of his lower lip while he sought to bring the card into focus. Failing that after a session of trombone he tucked the card into his pants pocket.

“I’m here to show you a revolutionary new product. One that can’t help but give you more time to do those things that make you want to jump for joy.”

Maybe it was the fast pace of the man’s banter or the slow pace of Bart’s brain, either way he wasn’t in the mood to stand there and listen.

“Sorry Mack.” Attempting to shut the door it stopped on the outstretched palm of the peddler.

“Now Sir. If you’ll just give me a minute of your time I’ll be out of here before you know it.”

“You’re out of here now.”

“Tut tut. One minute is not so much to invest to learn of something that can save you hours, now, is it?”

“I said beat it ass-wipe.”

“You’ve a poor attitude Sir. I’m only trying to make an honest living the best way I know how; trying to support my ailing wife and three young children. Trying to keep the wolf away from our door.”

That did it. That line probably worked on a lot of people but Bart wasn’t a lot of people. The milk of human kindness soured on him long ago.

He grabbed the peddler by the knot of his lime-green necktie in one hand and in the other his black sample case with its tattered and frayed corners, with the faded, gold embossed lettering that said HOPEWELL ENT. INC., the first “E” so worn, at first glance it looked like HOP WELL. Protesting vehemently, the little man was dragged to the street and deposited in the oily pool of water in the gutter along with his case.

“Now get lost you little fucker or I’ll shove that case up your ass!”

“You’ll be sorry!” said the peddler while Bart strode toward his house without looking back. “I’ll have the police on you,” went over Bart’s head when he climbed the three steps to his door. “There are laws in this country,” fell on deaf ears before Bart firmly shut his front door.

One hour later: After shaving, showering and putting on fresh clothes Bart looked like a decent human being again. He was about to sit down to his breakfast of oatmeal, buttered toast and coffee when another knock came to his front door. “Christ, now what.” A gulp of hot java, toast in hand he strode to answer the insistent rapping.

On the stoop stood a tailored, uniformed police officer. Behind him cringed the peddler; his dirty damp gray suit hanging like a dishrag on the kitchen sink on a rainy day. Bart concealed his uncontrollable smirk by shoving the last bite of toast in his mouth.

“What is it?” came out through bites.

“This man says you assaulted him,” said the officer.

“Couldn’t have.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”

“You lying son-of-a-bitch!” cut in the fuming peddler; pointing an accusing finger around the officer. “You ruined my suit not to mention all my samples.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Now wait a minute,” cut in the officer. “Knock it off…. Are you sure this is the man who did this?”

“He’s a little cleaner, but it’s him all right.”

“Now Mr…?”


“Tredan,” jotted the officer in his notebook. “If you didn’t why would this man say you did?”

“Beats the shit out of me. Maybe he’s a kook who likes to try to rip people off.”

“Now just a damn minute! You’re not going to lie your way out of this.”

“Who you calling a liar you little ass-wipe?”

“That’s enough!” chimed in the officer. “I’ll haul you both down to the station and we can settle this there.”

“Ask him this,” said Bart who’d had a lifetime’s practice at dodging responsibility. “Ask him if he’s got any witnesses.”

“Well Sir… do you have anyone who can corroborate your accusation?”

“…Well, no. But that doesn’t mean—”

“There, you see, he’s got no case. It’s his word against mine.”

The officer nodded slightly, “He has a valid point Sir.”

“Whatta you mean. He can’t get away with this. He—”

“Sir. You can take Mr. Tredan to court if you wish but I’d advise against it.”


“Your claim won’t hold up without someone to corroborate your accusation.”

“Then he just gets off Scot free?”

“I’m sorry Sir. That’s the way it is sometimes.”

Bart stood smugly while the peddler fumed. He’d lied his way out of another scrape. That’s why his wife left him last year. His lack of consideration and lack of honesty became just too much. “If there’s nothing more officer, I’d appreciate it if you’d show this man off my property.”

“You lying bastard! You won’t get away with this!” shouted the peddler as the officer led him away. “I’ll get even with you! You’ll see!”

“I wouldn’t make any rash threats in front of a witness,” warned the officer.

Bart was full of himself while the little man stormed off in frustration. He watched smugly when the peddler, urged along by the officer, shook his fist and cursed loudly while receding into the distance. Bart felt so good he held off throwing stones at the neighbor’s cat crossing his yard again.

Heavy rain drowned out any outside activity on Sunday. No matter. This time of year, Bart usually parked in front of the TV watching football and swilling beer. If anything was in his favor, he did dedicate Saturdays to laying in all the supplies he needed and doing the yard work; which amounted to running the lawn mower around the yard. He’d long since mowed down or pulled up every flower, bush, or shrub his ex-wife once planted. He wasn’t about to dedicate an inordinate amount of time on such nonsense when a quick run of the mower could do it all quite nicely thank you.

The thick fog on Monday might have seemed an omen in hindsight; to Bart it was a fucking pain in the ass. The Interstate would be slowed to a crawl making him late for work again. His fuckhead of a boss was going to rag on him one more time for not being better prepared.

He didn’t need that crap any more than the flat tire he discovered when he walked around his pickup to the driver’s door. Shit! The jack was in the back under a shitload of junk he’d accumulated and had every intention of taking to the scrap yard. At least the spare mounted under the back of the bed still had air in it. Thank God for small favors. Get real. Not Bart.

The mist had burned off some when Bart finally made his way onto the Interstate; enough that he could almost see where he was going while he careened from lane to lane, yelling at the stupid fuckers to get the fuck out of the way.

Forty-five minutes late:

Bart careened through the gate at the plant. His only luck; the boss was out sick that day and could not meet him at the time clock mounted below the expanse of glass in front of the office making spotting late arrivals easier. Everyone has their better; Bart’s boss was better at being an asshole than he. His rank allowed him to treat Bart with all the inconsideration that was his due and Bart was impotent to do anything about it.

To make a lousy day worse Bart found out from the repairman at the tire center where he stopped on his way home that his tire had been punctured through the sidewall by a thin pointed object. He could repair the puncture but the tire would only be good as a spare. “Fuck that. Slap a new one on there and put it on the rear.”

Had he bought the steel-belted one the dealer suggested instead of opting for the nylon ply that flat he got Tuesday morning when he roared out of his driveway might not have occurred.

When he arrived for work late again his boss stood at the time clock to bid him good morning.

“Two days in a row Tredan. You trying to set a record or something? Well forget it. I’ll have your lazy ass out on the street before that happens.”

“I had a fucking flat,” cut in Bart before his boss could ask the question.

“C’mon Tredan, how fucking stupid do you think I am? Be more original. That’s the same excuse you gave yesterday. “

“How would you know? You weren’t here yesterday.”

“Your buddies on the dock ratted you out this morning.”

“The Bastards would!”

Ordinarily, Bart wouldn’t let that kind of remark by his Boss go, but he did because he knew this fuckhead wouldn’t appreciate the answer. “It’s true. The new tire I bought yesterday went flat on me.”

“Well then you better take it back and get your money refunded…. And Tredan… don’t be late again tomorrow or you’ll find yourself with the rest of the week off.” Not lingering for a reply, he turned his back on Bart and returned to his office.

The Tire Dealer…

waxed all flavors of apologetic when Bart stormed into his office. Bart had a lot of pent-up frustration that needed a place to relieve itself. His righteous indignation and colorful, if inane, commentary suffered severe whiplash when the dealer returned from examining Bart’s tire; in his hand, a .16 penny nail sharpened to a needle point.

“We removed this from your tire Sir.”

“You’re kiddin’?”

“’Fraid not. Someone’s playing a cruel joke on you. You couldn’t have picked this up on the road. Someone placed it under your tire on purpose.”

“So what about my tire?”

“Well, under the circumstances we’re not liable for any damages.”

“So what you’re telling me is I’m out the 75 bucks I paid you for the fucking tire.”

“I’m sorry Sir.”

If Bart had only stopped to examine the tire before he tossed it into the back of his truck, he might have saved himself a lot of future grief. Instead, he chose once again to stick his foot in his mouth.

“You’re sorry. Bull!… Y-know what I think? I think you’re trying to rip me off. I’ll bet you pulled that nail outta your tool box so you don’t hafta give me a new tire.”

“I don’t like your tone fella.”

“And I don’t like being ripped off. I got halfa mind to call a cop.”

That did it. The dealer’s patience stretched to its farthest limit, snapped. “You ain’t got half a mind dipshit! You wanna call a cop, go ahead. I’ll have him toss your ass outta here for trespassing. Now. I’ll have a plug put in your tire and you can take it and shove it up your ass for all I care. Just don’t ever come back here.”

“Don’t worry I won’t,” he yammered while stalking toward the door, pausing for one final word. “And I’m gonna call the Better Business Bureau about this rip-off joint.”

Somewhere in that disjointed array of little gray cells Bart Tredan was certain he’d come out the winner. After all; didn’t he get the tire patched for nothing.

That evening after a dinner of nuked macaroni and cheese, and a can of applesauce washed down with two sixteen-ounce cans of Coors, Bart popped a third and went to his front window. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, gone but for a faint reddish glow on the clear skyline.

Bart stared at his truck in the driveway. Gulping nearly a third of the can he knew what he’d do if he could catch whoever fucked around with his wheels. Probably one of those teen-age bastards that lived down the street. They had it in for him ever since he ran over then refused to replace their football. Served them right; bastards shouldn’t be in the street. Yeah, if he caught whoever screwed with him, he’d show ’em. Beat their fucking heads in for ‘em; show ’em they can’t fuck around with Bart Tredan.

After the fourth beer, sometime after he’d popped the top on the fifth, paranoia set in. He knew how he’d get ’em. He’d turn out the light and wait in the dark for them. Taking his beer and the last one in the six-pack from the fridge he hunkered down in the shadows along the eastern side of the house. Nobody was going to fuck with him and live to tell of it.

On the Watch:

Minutes ticking slowly into an hour after he’d finished the last beer doubt crept in about how well concealed, he was. Maybe they saw him; that’s why no one showed. Damn! He wished he’d left in those shrubs his old lady planted here.

On top of this, another concern nagged at him. Not only were his legs getting cramped from decreased blood flow, his bladder in its compressed state demanded greater priority. His first instinct was to go into the house for a quick piss, grab his jacket because he was really feeling the chill and get right back outside. Encroaching paranoia slammed on the brakes. Maybe they were waiting for that. They’d only need a minute to run up into his yard, do the dirty deed and be gone. No. He’d thwart them. He’d just go back to the corner of the house and piss on the ground while he kept an eye on his truck.

On prickly, tingly legs caused from the sudden influx of fresh blood he crept around to the back corner of the house. He’d barely gotten his dick out when it shot forth its payload in a steady stream that splattered some six feet away. Steam rising from the target area shown clearly in the light from the neighbors backdoor light filtering through the acacia bushes acting as a buffer between the two yards. Stifling a sigh, he threw his head back in relief; forgetting all about the truck.

Halfway through the voiding a dog barked a few doors down. Startled, Bart’s cock shut down immediately. Someone’s here ricocheted across his addled brain. Reflexes honed since childhood when he used to piss on trees, kicked in. The left hand thrust the slightly dribbling member back into his pants while the right zipped the fly. Only, after years without practice the timing was slightly off. Whether the left hand was late or the right slightly early the result was the same. He’d caught the loose piece of flesh just below the glans in the biting teeth of the steel zipper.

Stifling a yelp of pain by biting on his forefinger, again he made a mistake. When the salty taste caught his tongue, he realized he’d used his piss covered left hand. Spitting reflexively, he briefly forgot about the pain in his piece. Only after the initial urge to retch subsided did the need to free himself return. Shaky fingers gingerly removed the zipper from his pinched member. He rejected the urge to stifle any degree of relief once he had his organ free. After rubbing the pain from his sore manhood his bladder once again demanded a hearing. Oh, what the hell, evidently there was no one around and he continued as before.

By midnight he felt convinced no one was going to show. Out there for four and a half hours he was cold, tired and in need of another beer. Entering his back door, no great effort needed to be put forth for him to believe he’d scared them off and that they’d never return. Nobody fucked with Bart Tredan and got away with it.

Wednesday Morning

found him out the door early. A slow thorough check of all the tires showed they were still inflated and no surprises were either under the tires or in the driveway. He’d showed them he was no pushover. He’d even show that fuckhead at work by being in early.

Undaunted, he roared back out of the driveway, threw the five- speed in first and floored it. The wheels thrust out jets of white smoke when they squealed the unmistakable sound of rubber on asphalt while he raced along the street.

Bart, his usual cheery self once again, had met the enemy on his own home ground and come out the victor. He was in asshole’s heaven while he motored along. By the time he entered the interstate he’d already cut off a Cadillac Seville attempting to enter the street in front of him and forced a pedestrian to jump back on the pavement in self-defense. He even yelled at one old codger to get his turtle ass off the street and out of the way.

The Interstate was another item. An eighteen-wheeler emblazoned with MAMA CORZONI’S FINE PASTA attempted to beat him to the exit ramp. When the truck swung around from the left the rear wheels of the trailer headed for Bart’s front fender. Cursing, Bart stomped on the brakes. Before he could shake his fist at the inconsiderate bastard his skull snapped back against the head rest; his rear bumper being the recipient of the front end of a 2007 Monte Carlo. Fishtailing like a spastic trout Bart ended up careening along the shoulder of the road; coming to a stop a quarter mile down the highway.

Slamming the steering wheel, he glared into the rearview to see the Monte Carlo coming to a stop behind him. Thrusting open his door he leaped out onto the highway, slammed his door and stomped to the back to check on his truck. While he did, the little old lady driving the Monte Carlo got out to do the same to the front of her car. The custom chrome steel bumper mounted on the back of Bart’s pickup showed nary a sign of harm. The Monte Carlo was another matter; the grill sported definite signs of distress. Assured he was unharmed he wheeled around to the gray haired, wide-eyed old woman, the old fucking bitch!

“What the hell’s the matter with you woman?! You so fucking blind you can’t see where you’re going?”

“But—” was all the trembling woman could manage, pointing at the back of Bart’s truck.

State Police Check it Out

While he growled at her a State Police cruiser, lights flashing red, blue and white all over pulled up behind the Monte Carlo. Stern of jaw, hair cut to within a quarter inch of his scalp, in a uniform that fit ever so tight and didn’t dare show a wrinkle, the Trooper strode up behind his mirrored aviators and calmly asked, “What’s the problem?”

“The problem is this blind old woman shouldn’t be allowed to drive on the highway!”

“But,” she pointed.

“What happened exactly?” the Trooper asked in his best Joe Friday.

“Some God damned eighteen-wheeler cut me off and I had to slam on the brakes!”

“But,” she still pointed.

“Then this old fossil, who probably can’t see her nose in fronta her face, slammed me in the rear!”

“But,” again pointing.

“I’m lucky the old bitch didn’t kill me.”

“I don’t think we need that kind of language,” said Friday. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked the woman.

“He d-didn’t have any b-brake lights,” she quavered, still pointing.

“Well Sir, do your brake lights work?”

“Of course, they do. She’s just tryin’ to weasel out of her responsibility.”

“Simple enough to check. Get in the cab and place your foot on the brake.”

“Why should I? It’s obvious she’s tryin’ to lie her way outta this.”

“Get in the cab, Sir and put your foot on the brake pedal,” he said as calmly as before. Only this time with the slightest bit more urgency. Bart knew he’d better not resist.

Grumbling, he flopped himself half in the front seat his left foot still on the highway, his right foot stomped on the brake. “There, see.”

“I don’t see anything here,” said Friday.

“That’s impossible,” said Bart, stomping the pedal several times. “Now look at it.”


“See. I told you officer. They don’t work,” she said almost smugly now.

“That can’t be”

“See for yourself.”


“Step out of the vehicle Sir.”

Bart changed places with the officer.

“You see. Nothing,” stated the old lady emphatically.

“You sure your foot’s on the pedal?”

“Step out here and take a look.”

Bart took up a position on the side where he could see the Trooper’s foot and the side of his rear taillight. Sure, enough the lights were as dead as his compassion. The Trooper got out of the cab reaching for his ticket book and pen, went to the rear of Bart’s truck, put his jack-booted foot on the bumper and began to write.

“What’re you doing?”

“Writing you a summons. I’ll need your license, registration and insurance card.”

“What for? She ran into me.”

“You’re driving an unsafe vehicle. If your lights were working, she might not have hit you.” The old lady was really smug now, hands on hips, glaring resentfully at Bart.

After giving Bart the ticket, the Trooper told him to get off the Interstate and stop at the nearest service station to have the problem corrected. Bart would have said fuck it and gone on to work, where if he was lucky, he might just make it on time but the Trooper outfoxed him and said he would follow him to the nearest exit and to a repair shop.

As Luck Would Have It.

If not for bad luck Bart would be totally alone. Oft times the Lords of Chaos are feeling a mite frisky. Bored with picking on the innocent they sometimes choose one ignorant bastard and turn on him just to let him know who’s in charge. Bart’s number hit the lottery this time.

As fate would have it, the nearest place to the exit ramp that did repairs was the same tire center that Bart had been told never to enter again. If not for the Trooper the dealer might have turned Bart away but the sly fox saw a means of exacting some revenge. They took him in right away but they took their time. Always on the alert Bart wasn’t about to be ripped off; he’d stay with the truck and watch everything they did. He was too smart for them.

The first place checked: the fuse box. The dealer was meticulous in searching for the right fuse. It looked okay when he finally plucked it from between the contacts but if he was going to be thorough, he’d best check the continuity of the fuse on the meter which sat way over on the other side of the shop. The perceptive, responsible boss that he was he checked on the progress of every employee and the repair work they were doing on his way to fetch the meter and rechecked them on his casual stroll back.

Bart strained at the leash; his patience already worn thin this ass-wipe wasn’t helping it much. Uncommon to Bart some vestige of common sense nagged at him to keep his filthy yap shut.

“The fuse tests out okay,” said the devious repairman. “I’d better check the connection to the brake switch to make sure the wiring hasn’t come loose.”

“Is this gonna take long?”

“I don’t think so Sir. We’ll have you out of here before you know it.”

Twenty minutes later Bart was hopping around like a little boy who has to take a wicked piss and the line to the john isn’t moving.

“The wiring and switch is fine. Let me check the bulbs.”

A slow trip to the toolbox, a leisurely check on the other employees and the repairman was at the tail lights removing the crimson glass.

“Well Whata ya know.”

“What is it?” demanded Bart, leaning in close.

“I’ll be damned. You ain’t got no bulb in here.”

“What?” leapt out of Bart’s mouth. “That can’t be.”

“Well look for yourself – nothing. You must have someone awful mad at you to pull a trick like this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me.”

Bart paused while he wrung the back of his red neck. “Well just replace it so I can get out of here. I’m late for work and my boss is gonna chew my ass out!”

“Surely if you explain…”

“He don’t wanna hear it. Just replace the bulb willya.”

“I’d better check the other one just to be sure.”

“Fine fine. Just get on with it!”

As expected, the other bulb was missing too. After 15 minutes of hunting for the right bulb and replacing all the parts the job was complete. When presented with the bill Bart’s last shred of good sense tore from its anchor. To his favor his outrage was not unwarranted; the bill totaled twice what it should have.

“What the hell is this? No way two bulbs and labor should cost this much.”

“You want I should take them back out?”

Bart strangled on his tongue; desperately trying not to vent his spleen any more than he already had. The son-of-a-bitch mother-fucking bastard had him over a barrel and he knew it.

“No dammit!” he snarled while reaching for his wallet, peeled off a few bills and thrust them out to the repairman. “Here!”

“Your receipt Sir,” he said sickeningly sweet, “and do have a good day,” he said nearly laughing after Bart turned to get into his truck.

Why me dammit? What’d I ever do to deserve this, rebounded inside his head when he sped out of the dealership and back onto the highway.

More Bad Luck

Upon speeding into the back gate of the plant he was 45 minutes late. Roaring into a parking spot concealed from the dock no one was present to see him; his luck was holding. His plan was simple; he’d just sneak up on the dock and climb up on his forklift like he’d been there all along. When that fuckhead of a boss asked him why he hadn’t clocked in he’d just tell the ass-wipe he’d gotten there too early to clock in and simply forgot. Yeah, that’d work; the fuckhead was stupid enough to believe it.

When the morning neared the noon hour and he hadn’t been challenged Bart presumed his little scheme was working – NOT! At precisely five to noon the boss strode up to Bart while he dismounted his forklift.

“Well Tredan, what’s your story this time?”

“I don’t getcha.”

“You were late again.”

“You’re nuts.”

“That’s your opinion.” Then he waved Bart’s timecard in his face. “I don’t see you clocked in here — do you?” To which Bart laid on his speech he’d carefully rehearsed all morning. “I’m not as dumb as you look Tredan. I’m not about to swallow that pile of shit.”

“Whatta ya talking about. I told you like it is.”

“You are a fool.” Bart stood puzzled, his boss pausing just long enough to allow him to begin to sweat. “I stood by the time clock from 7:45 to 8:25 and no Bart. I even had you paged twice just in case you mighta been here early and you know what I got? Nothing,” he said, leaning in for emphasis. “I had one o’ the truckers watch for you and tell me when you got here.” Bart’s shoulders slumped. He looked nowhere in particular to avoid the man’s face. “I warned you what would happen if you were late again. So now you got the rest of the week off to think about it.”

“That ain’t fair!”

“Tough ain’t it.”

“But someone tampered with my truck – took the tail light bulbs out. I had an accident and the fucking cop made me get them fixed before he’d let me go,” came out of Bart’s mouth in a torrent.

“So why didn’t you come to me this morning and tell me?”

“Wouldja have believed me?”

“Probably not.”

“Wait! I got proof,” struck Bart, causing him to rummage through his shirt pockets; producing a wadded-up sheet of yellow paper that he rapidly unfolded, turned around twice, flipped over and poked under the boss’s nose. “See! It’s a receipt for the bulbs I hadda get put in.”

The boss glanced at the sheet of paper. Tilted his head to one side while his chin under his thrust out lower lip rebounded from side to side. Then he handed the receipt back to the wide-eyed Bart. “They overcharged you.”

Bart’s shoulders slumped, his head lolling to port when he snatched back the sheaf of paper. “See. This proves I got an excuse so you can’t suspend me.”

“Yes I can.”

“Whata ya mean?” His jaw dropped.

“You lied to me. You coulda told the truth but instead you chose to fabricate some stupid ass lie. No, you’re still outta here.”

“You’re a damned FUCKHEAD!”

“So I’ve heard,” he said calmly while he stepped into Bart’s face. “If I had my way I’d can your chicken shit ass right now, but company policy says I can’t do that until I’ve suspended you at least once. Now haul your saggin’ butt outta here.”

“I’ll file a grievance.”

“Fine… but you’ll have to wait until you come back to work on Monday.”

“You just wait! I’ll get even with you,” bit off Bart when he turned to leave.

“Oh, Tredan. Since you forgot to clock in,” he said, waving the timecard, “you worked this morning for nothing.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can try… fuckhead.”

Bart threw his hands up in disgust, shaking his lowered head; again, turning to leave.

“Oh, one more thing…” Bart stopped, his back remaining to the boss. “Even if you’d come to me with that receipt straight away I’da still sent your ass out of here.”

Bart’s teeth ground together hard enough to nearly mash them to powder, every muscle tensed in frustration. He paused for a second to look back at that smug fat face then stalked off to his truck. The back end of the pickup fishtailed severely when he roared out the gate and down the highway.

End Part One

In case you missed the Iceman series that just finished

If you have any thoughts on this series if you liked or didn’t please feel free to comment
©2023 VJ Miller, Sr. Fair use rights with attributes are implied


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