Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The word prompts over at Three Word Wednesday are dangerous, keepsake and restless.


Tabor came back from the can, doing that thing with his lips when he gets nervous, pinching the ends between thumbs and index fingers and pulling.
He downs the Scotch and soda on the bar and jabs his index finger into my sternum.
“You’ve gotta go talk Deveroux off the ledge,” Tabor says. “Twitchy fucker is dangerous, man.”
I am not Deveroux’s keeper.
“What’s he done now,” I say.
“He’s got a pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants,” Tabor says. “In the john, he keeps pulling it out and pointing it at himself the mirror.”
“He say anything?”
“Just winked and said he needed the quick-draw practice. The fucker winked at me.”
I am Deveroux’s enabler.
“I’ll go have a chat with the man.”
He’s at the end of the bar, at the entrance to the dance floor and he’s swaying to the beat of long, unbroken techno thump. Gray flannel suit that lies across his shoulder with the unmistakable touch of tailoring, white Oxford shirt, blood-red silk tie, black leather suspenders. Dark hair, it’s coiffure precise. Long, tan fingers ending with manicured and buffed nails.
Deveroux is everything I want to be, but can’t.
Deveroux’s drinking bourbon straight and I know he’s ingested a few pharmaceuticals, but he has not – and never has – broken into a liquor or drug sweat.
Deveroux’s the man.
“Tabor said you’re a bit restless tonight, homeboy,” I yell into his ear. “You’re making him nervous.”
“Tabor can go fuck himself,” he says, flashing those perfect porcelain veneers. “And you can tell him so for me.”
“Says you’re being a bad boy, seems like you couldn’t keep your toys at home.”
“Just a .38, nothing to worry about.”
“You know it’s way too soon.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” he says. “You gotta keep them guessing.”
He draws to full height, begins to move with the beat – and starts backing onto the dance floor. His hands are formed into pistols and he’s firing in my direction.
“Besides,” he says into the club din, “how often is it that we get a chance for a couple of keepsakes this tasty?”
I scan the floor and lock onto the twins, and am immediately mesmerized by their blond hair, rich pale skin, the jut of their hips as they dance.
I am Deveroux’s salivating accomplice.


Daily Panic said...

I felt the wildness of the gunman and how his exterior did not match his interior. I also felt the conflict of his friends, they felt the right and wrong of the situation, but knew they would have to reap the consequences of his actions- like all who follow a bad leader.

Anonymous said...

The double personality makes the story I think.

Happy Wednesday!

anthonynorth said...

I guess, in the end, it's a matter of priorities :-)
Enjoyed this.

gautami tripathy said...

Liked this. Engrossing story.

Andy Sewina said...

Yeah, good story, it looks like Deveroux's still the man!

Kristy Worden said...

interesting! not sure I like this deveroux guy... liked the writing though... 'techno thump' - liked that..

Tumblewords: said...

As always you produce people for the reader to wonder about - and to recognize the darkest places inside. Nicely written.

Ann (bunnygirl) said...

I think I've known guys like Deveroux. It's the paradox that makes them so hard to ignore or forget.

Nicely done!

PJD said...

Again a masterful and amazingly tight piece of prose. One nit: I think you want "its coiffure" not "it's..." But I could be wrong about that--I do like the phrase "coiffure precise" as a descriptor.

The pacing through the use of "I am Deveroux's X" is right on. Illustrates the self-awareness which then completely reveals the MC's character in his final action.

Anonymous said...

"I am Jack's raging bile duct." Great story, you sick puppy... I dig the homage to Palahniuk and Easton Ellis in there.

missalister said...

Ha, yeah, Jason’s on it. Add “brilliant” before “sick puppy” and you have my sentiments, exactly.