The owner walks around with a shotgun.
When I started here, fresh from facing the judge and wearing my court-ordered orange collar, he told me it was for my protection. A straight arrow, running a diner staffed by cons. Any idiot with a gun could see it as an easy cash grab with zero repercussions. So. The gun.
Del was the first firing I saw.
Bossman took him to task over not locking up properly the night before. The guy was a bit forgetful. He’d been collared for six years now, wouldn’t say what for, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who’d have beaten a guy to death for instance. And now he spent every morning and night rushing from his shitty apartment to his shittier job avoiding the Justified who wanted nothing more than a little sport.
Del fucks up. Bossman shouts, loses it. Drags the guy out the back, where I’m taking out the trash. And proceeds to put the shotgun to the back of his head and lets him have both barrels.
I’m not squeamish. I’ve done jobs that took bad turns. Heck, that’s what landed me here. But Del? He just forgot to lock a door and now his brains are making a slapping sound as I’m mopping up the remnants.
I talk to the others. What can we do? Don’t we have rights? A union? Their laughter’s worse than the boom of the shotgun. We screw up an order? Shot. We want more pay? Shot. We leave to work somewhere else? Bossman has our addresses on file.
I’ve got eight years and I can’t make eggs over easy to save my life. I never realised how literal that saying could be.
Prompt originally posted by Firefro626 on reddit and received 23 upvotes.