Free Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) by Shaw Johnny Page A

drained to nothing. And I was left standing with my dick in my hand and two pissed-off and pissed-on Mexican cowboys staring at me with murder in their eyes. In retrospect it was a pretty funny image, but at the time I couldn’t see the humor.
    I probably should have rushed toward the door. But if I was going to get in a fight, my first priority was to get my pants buttoned up. It’s kind of an unwritten rule in street fighting not to have your penis exposed. I had the first couple of buttons done when Red Boots threw a haymaker that caught most of my shoulder and some of my jaw. I fell backward, the back of my legs hitting the toilet behind me. Tripping over the bowl, my head hit the wall and my body got pinned awkwardly between the toilet and the wall. My legs were draped over the bowl, one arm underneath me and the other sticking straight up.
    I clawed at the side of the toilet, my eyes on the approaching Red Boots. Panic started to overtake me. I struggled harder, unintentionally wedging myself further into the tight space. My only consolation was that I had just seen Red Boots take a leak. At least he wasn’t going to piss on me. Only beat the shit out of me.
    Sure enough, he kicked me. The point of his boot connected with the back of my thigh. My own piss sprinkled my face, droplets from the top of his boots. The irony of it all.
    “ Dinero, pendejo ,” he said, thoughtful enough to use Spanish that even I could understand.
    “Fuck you,” I replied, extending him the same courtesy.
    He pulled a big folding knife from his back pocket and opened it slowly. He showed me both sides of the blade. It was a well-used knife stained with black splotches. I could even smell the faint odor of fish coming off it. It would have been bad enough if it was clean.
    “Okay,” I said, holding up my hands and pointing to my front pocket. “My money is in my pocket. Dinero esta aquí. ”
    He nodded.
    Using the opportunity to try to stand, I slid away from the toilet. I was stalling, knowing Bobby had all my money. I reached into my pocket anyway. That’s when the bathroom door swung open.
    Bobby took two steps in, his melon knife in one hand. Before Green Boots could turn, Bobby had kicked him right behind one knee with the flat of his foot. Green Boots folded backward with a yelp. The moment he hit the floor, Bobby brought his foot down on the guy’s wrist and then kicked him in the cheek. It took all of two seconds.
    Red Boots turned in time to see, but hadn’t moved. The two of them stared each other down. Bobby looked at the knife in Red Boots’s hand. Red Boots looked at the knife in Bobby’s hand. Bobby smiled. Red Boots didn’t.
    Bobby glanced at me. “Get up, man. We’ve got to go.”
    “No shit,” I said, wiggling out of the space and sliding across the urine-puddled floor. I kept my eyes on Red Boots’s knife, waiting for him to do something stupid.
    Reading my mind, Bobby said, “He ain’t going to try nothing. He came in here for the easy buck. That’s you. He might be a dumb Mexican, but he’s smart enough to see that I ain’t easy. I’m too much work. Nobody ever wins a knife fight. You both get cut.” Bobby looked at me, the floor, and Red Boots’s legs. “Bro. Clean up on aisle five.”
    We backed out of the bathroom. He closed the door and hurriedly stacked cases of beer in front of it.
    “The door opens in,” I said.
    Bobby shook his head, set down the case of beer, and walked past me toward the front.

I kept looking over my shoulder as we walked quickly away from the bar. The neighborhood still bustled with activity. Food vendors were out in force, and the smell of the street was intoxicating. Or maybe it was all the beer and violence that was intoxicating.
    Bobby smirked. “They don’t teach that in karate class.”
    “The guy came at me. I was taking a leak. What am I going to do?”
    “Stop pissing, maybe?”
    “I couldn’t. I didn’t. It wasn’t conscious.” I couldn’t