Saturday Night

     Damien sat behind the register, idly flipping through the pages of a magazine.  The tiny television was on at a low volume, almost muted.  Three customers were browsing through convenience, picking over the Corner Store’s fine selection of junk food and beverages.

      Somewhere in the distant night, there was an explosion or an impact of some kind.  The resounding noise and the flickering of the fluorescent lights was enough to make Damien glance up from his magazine, but only for a second.

      One of the customers wasn’t interested in cheese puffs, though.  He stood still, studying Damien for a few seconds.  The tall, skinny observer had a beaked nose, frizzy hair, and large bags under his blue eyes.  The man was shaking ever so slightly, and a careful observer might have noticed a series of blackish-reddish dots on the inside fold of his left elbow.  The fiend was wearing a dingy white tee with a plaid, unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt over it.  His faded jeans had the barest trace of holes appearing at the knees.

      His evaluation of Damien probably went something like this: a young, slacker-looking kid with green eyes and blondish hair, who would all but gift wrap the money in the register.

      After scanning the store and seeing only an old lady with a walker and a fat, sloven guy pawing through the junk food, the frizzy fellow was certain there were no heroes lurking about.

      There was a glimmer of reflected light on the surface of the gun as it was withdrawn.  This was enough to attract Damien’s attention, and he set down his magazine and prepared to deal with the unfolding situation.

      The felon spoke, “You know the drill, kid.  Gimme the money in the drawer or you, fatty, and grandma here all get wasted,”

      Damien nonchalantly rounded up the bills from their respective slots and was putting them into a paper bag, when he looked up to make an inquiry of the bandit.

      “Do you think I’m an indecent human being?” Damien asked.

      “What? Um…I don’t know…uh…give me the money, NOW!”

      Damien hesitated. “Before I give you the money, I want you to answer my question.”

      “I think you’re a stand-up guy, now gimme the goddamn money.”

      The teenager’s eyes narrowed. “Apparently you don’t.  By robbing my store of this eighty-something dollars, you are insulting me personally.”

      “And how am I doing that?” For a second, the robber was confused.

      “You obviously need this money really badly if you’d choose this method to get it.  And you’re implying I would ignore a fellow human in need, just by doing this.”

      Sarcastically, he replied, “And how can I correct this grave injustice?”

      Damien smiled.  “Simply ask me if you can borrow some money.  I would gladly lend you, say, a hundred dollars, if only you asked me.”

      The fiend was puzzled, and the young man kept speaking.

      “Here, instead of giving you this money from the register, I am going to lend you one hundred dollars.  I won’t report you to the police, since you won’t have robbed me, and you can put even your gun away.”

      Even god must have chuckled at mankind’s surprising redeeming qualities as Damien pulled a one hundred dollar bill from his wallet and the man placed his gun back into his pocket.  It was a shining moment for the observers too, who were certain that a crisis was being averted.

      The robber was still stunned, even as Damien was putting bills back into the register.  He smiled and reached to shake the clerk’s hand.

      “Man, I can’t believe you’d do this, especially for someone like me.  I will repay you this money, I swear it.”

      Damien beamed brightly, his other hand reaching under the counter for something. 

      “I know,” he said as he produced his own gun and emptied three shots into the would-be robber’s forehead.

      As he fell backwards, a look of surprise was frozen into his mangled, dying face.  Damien jumped over the counter and snatched the man’s weapon.

      He held up the gun and inspected it, then took out the clip.  The old lady and the portly man peeked around the aisle to see of the violence was over.

      “Unloaded,” Damien said, “typical.”

      He then took his own gun and placed it in the dead man’s right hand.  He tucked the other gun neatly into his pants, behind his back.  The bystanders were standing agog.

      “His gun is nicer than mine,” he explained as he took out the man’s wallet, taking not only his hundred dollar bill back, but also two singles that were hiding in there.

      “Now listen,” Damien said, “I jumped across the counter when he took his gun out.  We wrestled around a little, and during the scuffle the man’s gun went off.”

      The fat man was a little unsure about this. “Three times? Right into his own forehead?”

      “Accidents happen,” he said as he walked over to the cooler and gave them each a bottle of pop.

      The old lady looked up at Damien. “I just want to thank you, young man, for saving my life.”

      The chunky fellow uncapped his drink. “Can I have some chips, too?”