Good Bad Luck

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-Transcript-
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It always rains in this damn city.

But hell, I’ll answer any question you want as long as I’m not out there getting my drink watered down.

Heh - Where does my story begin? Same place it always does, at the bottom of a bottle.

Don’t you judge me. Everyone has a routine. Mine happens to start with a glass of something hard.

Then I-

…you know what, let me just show you.

(Draws pistol.) Calm down, I’m not gonna shoot ya. Just watch.

.22, right?

(Loads bullet.) In goes this little guy.

Put that to the head and-

(A dry click of pin hitting primer echos. Gun misfires.)

It just doesn’t happen. No matter the gun, the caliber, the fucking season.

You see. I have this thing I like to call – good bad luck.

You don’t know what I’m talking about?

Here I’ll… I’ll give you an example.

So, it was this time last year, on a day a lot like this one.

I.e., miserable

I was stumbling around in the rain, near blackout. Nowhere to go, out on rent.

It sounds like a hell of a way to live. But don’t knock it till you try it. There’s something about aimlessly walking around Chicago, sloshed out of your mind, that has a certain je ne sais quoi about it. Ya know?

Anyway, It was during this drunken stupor that she walked into my life.

Quite literally. She just walked right into me.

I tried to apologize, but before I could mumble the words out, she grabbed me by the face and… and kissed me.

I went stupid, I mean I reeked of booze and vomit, I hadn’t showered in days, just walking around soaked from head to toe. I probably looked like a crazy person.

I couldn’t imagine what an eastern European broad like that wanted to do with a mutt like me. But for a moment it was nice to have a connection.

After laying one on me, we paused. The girl stared deep into my eyes. I felt her longing for something. I felt us, quantumly entangled.

Then she said thank you and walked off. Like I’m some fucking barista.

Just like that, gone. Goodbye. Sayonara. There she goes...

Mind if I smoke in here?

(Lights cigarette.)

It was a curtesy question, kid.

You gonna find me an ashtray? Or should I just use the floor?

Thanks. So where was I… that’s right. There she goes again.

Off she skittered. That’s when I heard the dumb one.

“And who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

Young. Jumpy. Scottish.

”Do ya hear me old man?”

Had the word “Libido” tattooed across his neck like fucking tool.

“Oi I’m fucking talkin’ to ya!”

He squared up pretty quick. Seemed like some sort of gangster.

I was gonna let it blow over until he pushed me.

The way he whined; you could tell he didn’t know how to take a punch.

I had it in the bag if his friend didn’t show up. Big, burly, sack of meat type of a man.

This guy… this guy you could tell he knew how to take a punch.

So, I reached for my pistol.

But the gun was gone.

The girl took my pistol.

Didn’t have enough time to think of reasons why before the lights went out.

…

I woke up to the sounds of the young couple bickering.

My hands were tied. Took me a minute to realize I was in a trunk.

No idea what they were yelling about, but the car leaned at an angle…

My guess was a flat tire.

The magic was working.

You see. I have… REALLY bad luck. No idea where I got it from. but it seems the more time I spend in somebody’s company.

The more it rubs off on them.

Until finally… ya know.

Krrk. (Gestures by sliding finger across neck.)

The arguing stopped. I could smell the bastard smoking. Nasty habit.

I tried flipping from my stomach onto my back when I noticed the weight around my ankles.

Cement shoes. Classic.

I was rightfully fucked.

“Why’s he so bloody quiet.”

“Może on śpi.”

The trunk flipped open.

“Up and at em big boy.”

They hoisted me out, and dragged me to the center of the bridge, leaning me against the railing.

We were at an underpass. I-55 maybe? The low rumbles of traffic whizzed by overhead.

Can’t remember. I was still shitfaced and now had a killer headache.

                                             “Any last words?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know they made gangsters your size.”

I must have struck a nerve, cause’ the little guy spit in my face, and shoved me off.

Unfortunately for him, his jacket zipper got caught on mine and being the handsome dead weight that I am, I pulled him in after.

I’d call that unlucky.

We hit the water around the same time.

My ropes got loose, and I instantly grabbed him around the waist, dragging him down into the murk.

Must’ve not taken a deep breath. Or maybe he just had shit lung compacity from all the smoking. Cause the bastard started thrashing around immediately.

You know. This is why they warn people against trying to rescue somebody drowning. You may be a good swimmer, but unless you’re trained as a lifeguard, often times the person downing panics… and tries to use you as a floaty. But ends up using you as an anchor.

Terrible way to die.

Forced to hold your breath until you feel like popping.

Muscle memory takes over and you inhale.

Then one of two things happen. Dry drowning. Or drowning drowning.

I didn’t even get close to that. The prick’s body went limp long before MY air started running out.

I pulled the gun from the holster around his arm and let his body float off to the bottom.

The cement shoes around my feet started to loosen.

Bad batch. Wrong mixture. Not enough time to set. Whatever it was.

It was pretty unlucky for them.

Through the shimmer of the water, I saw the outline of that Slavic mook.

He had made his way down riverside and was looking around.

Judging by the look in eyes, he wasn’t expecting me to spring to the surface.

And I gotta say. Neither of us was expecting my gun to work.

Three shots, center mass.

Lights out.

Good bad luck I’d say.

I took enough money out of his wallet to cover rent and went back home.

Imagine my surprise when I saw a note taped to my door.

I don’t know how she found me, but it was the dame that caused this whole debacle.

I happen to have the note right here.

It reads as followed:

“Dear mysterious man.”

That’s me.

“If you’re reading this, it means I shot that bastard dead and managed to getaway. I never wanted this life. If I knew what awaited me in America, I would have never left my home country. I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused you. The gun is in the trash can in the alley. I wish you the best of luck. – Lucy Marconi”

Nice of her. Don’t ya think?

I really should get going.

Nothing bad has happened to me in a quite a-

(A light fixture in the room falls.)

See? I’m getting out of here.

If you need me. You know where to find me.