The Country Corner
Old Phil Stine Buys Some Beer
Old Phil Stine was paying Clark the Clerk for his six pack of Red Stripe beer and his Swisher Sweet cigarillos at the counter of the Country Corner Gas Stop when he caught some incongruous movement out of the the corner of his eye. Phil looked out the double glass doors and saw some grungy kook getting on the saddle of his unlocked stripped down vintage Mongoose Alta bicycle.
“Sonofabitch!” Phil shouted, grabbing his beer and busting through the doors as the perpetrator pedaled off fast just like the Road Runner in the old cartoons. Clark the Clerk was right behind Phil.
“That's that fucking crackhead that's been hanging around here lately!” yelled Clark. I'll call the cops!” he said, rushing back inside.
“Better call an ambulance,” muttered Phil, pulling one of the hefty bottles from the six pack. He wound up fast and let rip with an amazing beer bottle fastball that left one old man at the gas pumps somewhat breathless. The bottle whizzed unerringly with no arc and no wasted time right into the back of the head of the fleeing bike thief. He went down fast, the bike becoming tangled with his legs and arms in a kind of strange sculpture of failure. Phil strode over to the tangle and lifted the dazed crook by the lapels of his filthy shirt, lifting him to eye level. He did it with no apparent effort, giving the guy a swift shake to disentangle his limbs from the bicycle. The crackhead urinated in his pants. Phil tossed the helpless loser into some nearby palmettos and reached down to pick up his bicycle and the beer bottle missile.
“Here,” he said, flipping the beer to the thief. “You might want to wait awhile before you open that.” He turned around and walked his bike back to where he had left his remaining beers. Clark the Clerk came out of the store. He was still excited.
“What the hell?” he said. “What the hell? The cops are on the way!”
“Well, then, you can tell them all about it when they get here”, said Phil, peddling off.
