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From the TV behind his head he heard, “Look, let me explain something to you. I’m not Mr. Lebowski. You’re Mr. Lebowski. I’m the Dude. So that’s what you call me. That, or His Dudeness … Duder … or El Duderino, if, you know, you’re not into the whole brevity thing.”
Brevity. If only.
The guy with the gun forced the barrel next to his nose and punched it as if to emphasize, “You get me right?”
Yes, he did get the guy’s meaning. He reached into the drawer, pulled out the ones and fives and thrust them at the guy.
“That’s it? Where’s the big bills?”
“We tuck all the money into the safe. Didn’t you see the sign? We don’t have anything over twenty.”
“Screw that. Pull the money from the safe.”
“Don’t you think you’ve wasted enough time?”
“I’m not leaving until I get more than twelve dollars.”
A siren sounded down the street. Old lady Moncrief, who only came in for a lottery ticket, lay on the floor and shook. Hitting the silent alarm probably was a bad idea. Whatever. This dude deserves what he gets for shoving a gun in his face.
“Oh, so that’s how it is?” He pulled the gun back, then slammed it on the counter. “Sometimes, I wonder why I do this.”
The gunman backed away, grabbed a bubblegum from its container, and ran out the door.
He watched the gunman run away. From the TV behind his head he heard, “Nobody calls me Lebowski. You got the wrong guy. I’m The Dude, man.”
© 2018, Michael Shawn Sommermeyer. All rights reserved.