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|I'm Just The Bell Ringer Here (standard:humor, 1620 words)|
|Author: Reid Laurence||Added: Oct 05 2006||Views/Reads: 2106/1126||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|The story of a man and his father who go out for breakfast one day and experience what we might call, an insightful view into their relationship - especially after many years of not knowing each other.|
Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story “No sir, I didn't. I got here just as soon as I...” “Then why'd it take so damn long?” “Hey dad, come on. Give the guy a break,” interjected Reid. “Everything's cool Carl. You done good. All we gotta do is eat this stuff now, right dad. Looks good, don't it?” But like any of the minor bumps and bruises in life that we all seem to have to endure from time to time, a problem had already begun to brew in Reid's mind and set a precedence to any other. “Ahh, dad,” he began. “Someth'in's not right here.” “Yeah, yeah. So what else is new. Pass the salt.” “No, I mean. I just know, someth'in's miss'in here,” and staring at a blank spot on the table where his pancakes should have been, but were not, Reid slowly but most certainly, zeroed in on the problem. “My pancakes... they forgot my fuck'in pancakes. I can't fuck'in believe it. An I told that fuck'in guy everything was cool. What, am I crazy or what?” “Relax wouldja? What is this, Anzio or what? You gonna make me sorry I met you now aren't you? Just lemme eat this in piece. You an your mother, ya both gimme indigestion you know that? God, sit down,” protested Robert, but it was too late, and as Reid began to rise from the table, he opened his suit coat to reveal two shoulder holstered .45 automatic weapons, retrieved them from their resting positions and brandished them, one in each hand as he walked up and down the long aisle of the restaurant, screaming for retribution and the pancakes he was promised but nay, did not receive. “I want my fuck'in pancakes, an I want ‘em now,” he shouted, turning around in circles as he spoke, aiming the two loaded guns for emphasis and waiting, as if for some answer from a crowd of desperately scared patrons who could only vomit with fear, and look on in astonishment at the real life spectacle now unfolding before them on the strangest stage of all - real life. But just as he was wondering who to shoot and what difference that would make to his pancake order, the waiter emerged from the kitchen, offering Reid the side order he'd been waiting for, and thanked him for his patience. Holstering one of the weapons in order to take the plate, Reid returned to his table and calmly slid back into his seat at the booth, resting the other gun he'd been carrying on the table surface with a thud and began to divide up the stack of three pancakes with a fork as his astounded father sat and watched. “Anyways,” began Reid, snapping in and out of rage as simply as one might change a hat or coat. “The bell ringer, remember,” he said, as he poured maple sirup over the three, hard won pancakes. “He fell remember, right?” “Are you nuts?” asked his father. “You just scared the shit outta these poor people and now you're gonna tell me a joke? Well I got news for you. The cops are here buddy, an I don't think they're in the mood for jokes. You got some explain'in ta do.” But in seeing the squad cars pull up, all Reid could think of doing was to bite into those pancakes, and what would go with them better then a thin strip of crispy bacon smothered in sirup. “Come out with your hands up,” shouted one of the policemen on a megaphone, loud enough to wake the dead. But Reid still sat and calmly ate until he'd finished much of what the waiter had brought. Then finally, just as the police were about to do something drastic, he rose from his seat once more with his hands in the air, told his father, “I'll write. Hey, don't be such a stranger.” And walked to the door, pushing it open with his waist until he could turn his body and make it out to the four squad cars of waiting police. In the aftermath of all the unrest, two officers remained behind to question Reid's father, but when asked why he thought his son had pulled the guns out in anger, he could really not say. “I got no fuck'in idea,” said the old man. “I was hop'in you could tell me.” “Well, what was the last thing he told you?” answered one of the officers. “Sometimes, that gives us a clue as to what the person had on their mind at the time.” “Just some dumb ass joke about a bell ringer with no arms, that's all. Hey, he never was Einstein ya know what I mean?” “Hank,” said one officer to another. “You know any joke like that?” “Hey, ya know. Now that you mention it, I do. Ya see, this guy who rings this church bell, he's got no arms, so he rings the bell by runn'in right into it with his head. But when he misses it one day, he goes fly'in right over the edge a the tower and dies. Then one day a cop shows up an gives the priest pictures a the guy. The priest takes one of ‘em, scratches his head for a minute an he says, “hmm, the name's not familiar but his face rings a bell.” “So what the hell is that supposed ta mean?” asked the eighty-one year old man. “Well, I'm no profiler, but if you ask me,” remarked one of the cops. “I don't think you spent enough time with your son. He feels you hardly know him.” “Now he tells me.” Tweet
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