Influx: Part 1

My uncle Wayne used to tell me that fights are won by the most underestimated man. It's not how hard you fight, it's how hard the other guy thinks you can fight. You go just a little bit above the expectations for you and you win. He was right, it happens every time. Everybody loves an underdog, except for the overdog.

The old man in the wheelchair came into the diner with a young black man in a brown trench-coat, he wore gray sweat pants and a black t-shirt what looked like steel-toed work boots. The girl with them is very pretty, blonde, a little heavy but with huge tits. Both her arms are sleeved with tattoos, which is bound to get attention around here, both of the good and less good types. Her tits were bandaged down, pressed tight against her torso, which had me wondering before everything started. The guy in the black t-shirt and the necklace in the corner booth is an ass named Larry, he has a twin brother named Tony who is also an ass. Neither of them have lived outside of this little town. They look like asses, with their thick necks, receding hairlines, Larry likes his jeans so tight he can't move his legs. Right as they came in Larry started to look at them like he wanted a fight. It was the old redneck glare, reserved for unfamiliar people in familiar places, an objection to influx, the fear of invasion. It was a rainy Saturday morning in January, in Florida, and we weren't going to be busy. The young black man looked over at Larry, saw the glare, grinned. Now, it wasn't a cocky, show-offy, young man's grin, like young men are wont to give on a basketball court, this was something else, and that something else made me think about getting extra bacon out should there be an influx of paramedics and Sheriff's officers in here today. The grin was genuine, it was quiet and seemed to spring from a thought or a memory or the imagination. It was spontaneous and didn't have a thing to do with intimating Larry or showing Larry that he was not intimidated. To Larry though, it probably just looked like he was trying to show how dangerous he was, that he wasn't scared. If there is anything men like Larry cannot abide is black men who are not at least a littel bit intimidated by them. Down here they live with the picture of black folk from the city engaged in perpetual gang wars and crack-fueled firefights. That's why the young men around here hunt so much, hip-hop music. Competition. Larry, in all likelihood, and in spite of his objection to influx, probably has as many Lil Jon CDs in his truck as he has Garth Brooks CDs.

Part 2

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