The Trouble with Bliss
Page 18
“You got them,” Morris says, congested. He didn’t fire a single shot. The stench and odor of patchouli—the Skunks’ favorite deodorizer—irritates Morris’s sinuses. He sneezes twice. “You cleared them out.”
Jetski’s lathered in sweat, is panting. “We did it, Bliss. The Bloody Eagles did it, baby,” Jetski says, overjoyed. “They tasted our talons.” He clumsily high-fives Morris.
“They tasted talon, all right,” Morris says.
“Bliss, we should get tattoos with that,” Jetski says. “ ‘Bloody Eagles. Taste our talons.’ Get them right here.” He punches him in the arm.
Morris sneezes again, and with the sneeze, accidentally discharges the pistol. There’s a damp thuuumb as a yellow paintball hits Jetski in the stomach, doubling him over.
“Bliss,” he says, the wind knocked out of him, “shit, that hurt.” He sits heavily on the floor, his eyes pooling. He coughs for air. “That really, really hurt.”
“Jesus, Jetski,” Morris says, bending down to help him, “I’m sorry. It was an accident. The gun, I don’t know, it just fired. I’m sorry. Jetski, I’m really sorry.”
Jetski’s eyes are the color of a newborn’s tongue. “I should wax your fucking tugboat, Bliss,” he manages the say between gasps of air. He pushes himself into a standing position, takes hold of Morris’s arm. He leans his face inches from his. Morris can feel the heat wafting off him. “It’s Jouseski, Bliss. Jouseski,” he says, letting go. “No one calls me Jetski anymore. You know I hate that nickname.”
Chapter 18