Dolittle.

The walls were not exactly white. The years had yellowed them like an old book left in the sun. Dry peeling paint the color of nicotine stained fingers. The smell was just as bad, a mixture of body odor and salami. I never understood the smell of salami, it seemed to be everywhere these days.

I waited for the fat man in the tight shirt to finish rustling through the pages in front of him. His shirt collar so tight that his head was turning purple. I want to punch him in his eye just to see if it would pop out under all that flab and pressure.

Okay, I am not a nice guy. I know this as well as i know the back of my hand. Sure it’s covered in scars from one to many  bar fights, but still I know it. I know each scar, each ache, I know where and when they happened and I earned every fucking one.

Back to the smelly fat guy. He seemed to finish rustling and is now doing that annoying “ahem” thing. I really want to snap this guys neck, but i let him speak.

“Mr Dolittle, you have quite the situation here.”

He doesn’t look me in the eye. I hate that. Man up or go home i say. He is sweating now, profusely. I kind of think this is going to lead to a more intense stench in the room. If this guy passes gas i will rip his ass out and choke him with his own colon.

“So your Aunt was quite well off. She left her entire estate to her only living relative, which seems to be you. In short, you are a wealthy man.”

I blink twice, once wasn’t enough. Things like this don’t happen to guys like me. I am a bit dumbfounded. I look at the fat guy square and give him one of my classic evil looks.

“You playing me fat man?” I ask pointedly.

He shifts in his chair uncomfortably. I guess being called what you are is offensive. He could call me shorty, or baldy…fuck he could call me ugly, wouldn’t bug me. I am what I am. Of course I would beat the crap out of him for it, but he would have my respect as he tasted his own blood. Fat lawyers, worse kind of fat.

“How much are we talking about?” I ask direct. I never dally in matters of money.

“Well if you liquidate her assets and sell her properties,” he rifles through those papers again. “well the total is about 15 and a half.”

“Fuck,” I say without realizing. “15 and a half thousand bucks.”

I am excited. I knew this would be a good day. The moment I got up and decided to drop by the hardware store. Sometimes days just happen the way they should. I mean a bit of paint thinner, a rag and the right amount of pressure. Goodbye old lady, hello 15 grand. Who would miss her? not me and 15 grand isn’t enough to call down too much heat.

The lawyer is still staring at me. staring like he is going to burst right out of that fucking smelly salami shirt. He rustles the damn papers and does that cough again.

“Mr Dolittle, the 15 and a half is not thousands. Your Aunt was worth millions. You are VERY wealthy.”

I listen, not so much to the fat guy, but to the sirens I hear coming closer. Millions, my fucking luck. Why would an old bat like that have millions. Millions means close examination. It means toxicology and careful autopsies. What I thought was a walk in the park just became a walk on a chain gang.

Fucking fat lawyers. Well at least I will go down with a bit of pleasure. I pick up the letter opener on his desk and push it into that eye. Not as satisfying as I thought, his head didn’t explode, but still, he stopped sweating.

Here comes the law. I am the richest fuck in town!

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