Free Rant by Alfie Crow

indignation.
    â€˜And who might you be, boy?’ he asked in that sheriffy sort of drawl.
    â€˜They call me Mr Rant,’ I said, advancing on him until we stood nose to nose in his doorway. Then I thought that sounded a bit silly so I pointed my gun at him. Pointed his gun at him. Well, it was someone’s gun, and it was pointed in his general direction, if you discount the wobbling. And he certainly wasn’t taking any chances.
    He looked a little taken aback, but not quite as much as I would have liked.
    â€˜You be careful with that gun, son.’
    â€˜Okay, Dad .’
    â€˜What? What is this, I — Oh. I get it. You’re here about some kind of weird paternity shit? Well, let me tell you, boy, taking precautions were as much her responsibility as mine and you ain’t gettin’ a penny out of me.’
    â€˜Just shut up and get inside,’ I said, menacingly. Or it would have been menacing if I hadn’t sounded like my voice was breaking.
    And if I hadn’t farted.
    â€˜Oh, man, will you stop doing that,’ he said, but at least he headed back into the house. I followed, closing the door behind me.
    â€˜I’m just nervous,’ I said, ‘Sorry.’
    â€˜Jeeezus,’ he said, wafting his hand in front of his nose theatrically. ‘Go see a doctor. Do you think maybe you have Irritable Bowel Syndrome? ‘Cause it’s certainly irritating the hell out of me. Maybe you should try colonic irrigation. Worked for me.’
    â€˜If you don’t shut up right now, Buffalo Bill, I’ll irrigate your colon with a bullet,’ I hissed, somewhat testily. God, I thought, I’m something of a natural at this. Surely I was moving to the dizzy heights of Villain, Second-in-command. I’d have to remember to update my details when I sent my CV in for work next time.
    I took the length of washing line out of my pocket.
    â€˜Now what in the hell are you going to do with that,’ he asked sarcastically.
    â€˜Look, it’s nothing personal,’ I said, ‘It’s just that I’ve been having a really bad day so far and I would feel much better if you couldn’t jump up and throttle me at any point.’
    â€˜I’d feel a helluva lot better if you’d stop waving that damn gun around, but we can’t have everything, now can we.’
    â€˜Look, just humour me.’
    â€˜I am humouring you, boy. I am humouring like you’ve never been humoured before. You don’t want to find out what happens when I stop being humorous because you for one will not be laughing.’
    â€˜Okay, look, ha, ha, I’m humoured. Now, let me tie you up and I’ll put the gun down. Or don’t let me tie you up, and I’ll shoot you in the leg.’
    â€˜Sounds fair.’
    So after a few minutes fumbling and a lot of ‘the rabbit goes around the tree and through the hole and then…no, the rabbit comes out through the hole and round the tree and back down the hole’ (I never was very good at knots), I eventually got his hands tied together, him tied to the chair, and the chair tied to the table. I debated tying the table to the door but that seemed a bit excessive.
    â€˜Okay,’ I said, a little breathless from the exertion of pulling on knots and shifting furniture, ‘My name is Michael Rant. Call me Mike. Nice to meet you.’
    â€˜Likewise,’ he said dryly, ‘My name is Samuel Smith. You can call me Mr Smith. Or Sir.’
    â€˜Okay, s ir ,’ I said. ‘Now, I have a problem—’
    â€˜I wasn’t going to remark on that, but as you brought it up, do you make a habit of storming into people’s houses and gardens, stinking and waving guns around?’
    â€˜No. I’m quite new to this game.’
    â€˜You don’t say. So what exactly was it that you wanted to talk with me about, young fella?’
    â€˜â€œTalk with me”? “Young fellow”? You