By The Horns

“What do you mean by 'you need more time?’” Jarrod Jefferson asked, irritated.

He swirled the Jack Daniels in his glass, taking a small sip of the dark liquid. He sat at his desk, placed the glass on the surface, and drummed on the wooden surface with his fingertips, playing in a disorganized melody. Jefferson, as everyone referred to him, was dressed in a sharp, pin-striped business suit with the light reflecting off his glasses. He was clean-cut, and his face seemed wrinkled as if he were always in thought. A short-haired, red-headed woman strutted over in a seductive stride as if trying to get Jefferson’s visitor’s attention. She succeeded. The devil in a blue dress and black, peep-toe heels swayed over to the edge of the desk. She sat her bottom on the edge, a drink in her hand also. She winked and put her lips to the glass.

“Things went left with the cash. Bills, paid expenses, y’know, the like.”

A long, exaggerated sigh escaped Jefferson’s lips.

“Mr. Bachelor, Mr. Bachelor, you’re not applying yourself,” he said, “Why did you call me just to tell me you didn’t have a red cent to give me? Do you not understand how dire the situation has just gotten?”

Mr. Bachelor stammered but attempted to calm his debtor down.

“Well, there’s a reason why I called you—I’m playing numbers. Some for sure numbers. Not just any numbers.”

“You? Playing numbers? Hmm. You one of those types?” Jefferson asked him.

“Those types?” Mr. Bachelor was taken aback by the question.

“Y’know, stuck in this endless gambling loop until the only thing you’re surrounded in is debt. You’d rather have that than people who care about you?”

“I’ll get it all back together,” Mr. Bachelor spoke defensively, “The last thing I need is your approval and not your pity.”

“Hmm,” Jefferson shrugged, “Anyway, what are these ‘numbers’, you talk of? What mess are you putting yourself through now?”

Jefferson poured himself another drink.

“Bullfights.”

“Bullfights?”

“Bullfights.”

“Bullfights.”

“Thirsty?” The woman finally spoke. Her voice, a seductive purr.

He quickly declined, putting his hand up.

“I’m going cold turkey.”

“That’s too bad,” She shrugged, taking another drink.

Mr. Bachelor awaited Jefferson’s answer in suspense. He was silent for a moment. He’d taken another drink of his Jack. Blue Dress had taken a drink herself, looking at Jefferson.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

Mr. Bachelor pictured her as Jessica Rabbit as the level of her sex appeal—the only difference was she was black—but she had the figure, and her hair was much shorter. Jefferson put his hand up apprehensively. He silently slid open the top drawer of his desk, removing the chrome .38 from his drawer, and displayed it on the desk. Blue Dress stared down at the glimmering, 6-chamber with the black, rubber grip.

“This is the cliché part. I think you know what I’m getting at,” Jefferson said calmly shutting the drawer back.

“What you plan to do with that?” Mr. Bachelor asked.

“I’m going to let your future actions decide that for you. How much is on the table?” Jefferson asked him.

“The amount I owe you and doubled with interest.”

“Where’d you get all this money?”

Mr. Bachelor never let down his apprehensiveness, shot back at him.

“What’s it matter to you? How I got it’s irrelevant.”

Jefferson’s lady released a small whistle from her thin, pursed lips. He placed his hand on the gun.

“You talk mighty big for a man under the gun. Let’s hope that you pay it all back.”

Mr. Bachelor quickly walked out into the heart of the casino, passing the wide arrangement of beeps, blips, and sounds of machines and people screaming and music muddled in a mixture. He was surrounded by different machines beeping in his language, telling him as if enticing him to place the next Blackjack bet or place some of the loose 50 dollars, in assorted bills, into a nearby slot machine. He needed to stop, but the sound of winning lingered above reasoning. He decided to try his luck at the bar. At least he’d get what he’d pay for—euphoria that could only be discovered at the bottom of an alcohol bottle. He slid onto a nearby chair. It was one of those fancy, black leather chairs with silver supports and matching black leather armrests. He slid in and got the bartender's attention, which wasn’t hard to do considering the bar area wasn’t as busy.

“Johnny Walker on the rocks.”

He immediately went to work, sliding him a drink on the clean wooden counter. He’d taken a small swig of the liquid, reaching into his pocket, a familiar voice stopped him from paying. A familiar female voice. She sat next to him, telling the bartender: “Put it on my tab.”

“Hey Tasha! For this gentleman?”

Tasha nodded her head in approval.

“What are you doing here?”

She pointed up to one of the several hanging flat screens.

“You bet on bullfights? Who does that?” She snickered.

Mr. Bachelor waved his hand warily.

“Apparently I do.”

“Well, let’s hope you win, eh? You get your prize and all of this debt’ll disappear.”