Page 6 of Tito

“Wouldn’t call you to bail me out.” Hap gestured in my direction with the neck of his beer bottle. “I’d call the kid.”

“Good to know,” Braxton said with a nod.

“Your turn, Brax,” Hap said, taking his seat at my side. “Fuck, marry, kill. Let’s hear it.”

Braxton studied a man who was arguing with a woman in the driveway of a home across the street. She backed her car out of the driveway, screeching the tires as she pulled away. The man stood with his fists clenched, fuming mad.

As the man turned toward the home, Braxton responded. “Can’t stand Kidman, either,” he admitted, stroking the graying scruff on his jaw as he spoke. “I’d fuck her, though.” He shifted his eyes to Hap. “In the ass. I’d kill Julia Roberts, and, believe me, I’d be doing the world a favor. Her face looks like a horse. For clarification, I’d be fucking that Australian bitch in the ass until she drew her last, dying breath. So, technically, I’d be killing two of them, leaving only one to marry: Anniston.”

Hap gave me a confused look. “Can he do that?”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Kill two of ‘em?” He crossed his arms. “Because if we can do that, I need to back up to the last one and make a few changes.”

“I can kill two,” Braxton said before I had the chance to respond. “If one of them is an accident.”

Hap shot Braxton a glare. “Doesn’t sound like an accident. Premeditated murder, if you ask me.”

“Nope,” his son argued. “It’d be an accident. I know me well enough to know I’d fuck that ugly cunt until she quit breathing. It’d be accidental. I’d just be caught up in the moment.”

“It’s not an accident if you go into it knowing you’re going to kill her,” Hap said, his voice raising two octaves. “It’s murder.”

Braxton shook his head. “Accident.”

“Fine.” Hap said in a huff. “I want to go back to the one we did a minute ago, and choke that google-eyed Paris Hilton by accident.”

“Can’t choke someone by accident,” Braxton said. “Choking someone is murder. Ass-fucking someone to death isn’t.”

“Then I won’t choke her,” Hap snarled. “But it’s bugging the shit out of me that I let her live. I keep conjuring up images of her, and it’s making my stomach turn. I’ve got to kill her. Kill Paris Hilton, kill Khloe Kardashian, and marry the little Mexican girl, Mila Kunis.”

“She’s from Ukraine,” I said.

“Kunis?” Hap seemed surprised. “She’s not a Mexican?”

“About as far away from Mexico as she could be,” I replied.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

With a satisfied look on his face, Hap rubbed his open palms over his gray buzz-cut while alternating glances between Braxton and me. “If Kunis is Russian, I’m feeling pretty good about this. So, kill, kill, marry. No fucking, except for the fucking Kunis and I are going to do afterward.”

Braxton shook his head. “Can’t kill two—”

“You did,” Hap complained.

“One was a fucking accident.”

“Well, while Kardashian is changing her Range Rover’s tire on the freeway, I’ll swerve over there and run her dumb ass over with my truck,” Hap said. “Then, I’ll accidently push Hilton off the edge of my balcony while handing her a glass of wine. That’s my final answer.”

“Three problems,” Braxton said. “First, you don’t have a balcony. Second, even if you did, you can’t accidently push someone off a balcony. If you push them, it’s on purpose. Third, Kardashian would never change her own tire. She’d have someone do it for her.”

“This is all fictitious horseshit,” Hap said. “I’ll play by the rules, though. I’m running over that dumb Kardashian bitch with my truck. Period. Maybe she’s walking down the sidewalk with one of her equally stupid sisters and I swerve over and get a two-for-one. Squash Khloe and Kim as flat as a couple of pancakes. I’ll spread Spandex, high-end purses, jewelry, designer clothes, and their remains for half a mile along Sunset Boulevard. With Hilton, I guess I won’t push her off a balcony. You and I’d be leaving that fancy restaurant in Hollywood you took me to. The one that British lady owns, SUR. Hilton would be coming in as we were walking out. Her crooked eyes would catch my attention. In this little fable, I’m wearing those fancy curvy-toed boots you gave me for Christmas two years back. So, while we’re coming out of the restaurant, her google eyes are distracting me. I catch one of those oversized boots on something, but I don’t know what it is, because I’m staring at her fish eyes. I stumble into her and push her off the curb in front of a gang banger speeding away from the scene of a drive by. He hits her with the front end of his ‘64 Impala and plasters that cock-eyed bitch from LA to Encino.” He clapped his hands together and offered his open palms. “Complete accident.”

“Drags her all the way to Encino, huh?” Braxton gave a nod. “I suppose that will work.”

“It’s fun to think about ridding this earth of the uppity reality show twits,” Hap said with a smile. “The reality is this: they’re a bunch of annoying bitches. We need better role models than a google-eyed hotel chain heir or a group of rich dip-shit sisters with fake lips and fat asses.”