Page 126 of Thug

“Don’t want to ruin ‘em,” he said.

“Don’t let him shit you,” Brisco said. “Fucker bought ‘em in Austin three years ago. They were on sale. He refused to try ‘em on. They’re two or three sizes too small.”

“Fuck you,” Price said. “They fit fine.”

“Put them on,” I said.

“I don’t need to put them on.” He looked around the room. “I need to get everything organized so these knuckleheads can go home. I need a minute of peace and quiet.”

Brisco reached for his wallet. “Twenty bucks if you can get those fuckers on and walk to the kitchen.”

“Fuck you.”

Brisco pulled out a 20-dollar bill. He waved it at Price. “Right here.”

Price stepped into the closet. After a moment of mumbling sons-of-bitches, motherfuckers, and cocksuckers into the closet’s confines, he emerged with his shiny “new” boots.

He raised his hands victoriously. “What’d I tell ya?”

He took one step, nearly fell, and then took another. After stabilizing himself, he attempted to walk across the room. He looked like a two-year-old wearing her mother’s heels.

“Look like you got a roll of quarters poked up your ass,” Brisco said with a laugh.

The room of men all began to laugh and point, which only made Price madder than he already was. After a few more wobble-legged steps, he lowered himself to the floor.

“Cheap bastards shrank.” He pulled each of the boots off in one tug. “They used to fit.”

“They never fit,” Brisco argued. “And, you owe me twenty bucks.”

“What size foot you got, Swagger?” Price asked.

“Nine and a half,” Swag responded.

Price tossed the boots across the room. “Take those fuckers home. You’ll be able to go another ten years without buying a pair.”

Swag picked up the boots and looked them over. “Good lookin’ out.”

Boots in hand, he rushed out of the room like a child who had just opened a new Christmas bicycle.

I carried one basket of shoes to the closet and then picked up the other.

Gunny poked his head through the bedroom door. “All the moving blankets and shit are loaded. Takin’ the truck back and picking up the scoot. What’s the plans for later?”

“Just hanging out,” Price said. “Gonna fire up the grille in a bit.”

Gunny tilted his head toward the hallway. “Swagger’s pacing up and down the drive in a new pair of boots. What’s goin’ on with that?”

“Just gave ‘em to him.”

“Figures,” he said with a laugh.

“Penny-pinching prick won’t spend a buck and a half on truffle fries,” Panzer said. “You know he ain’t buying a new pair of boots ‘till those others fall the fuck apart.”

“Buck and a half?” Gunny looked at me. “You could charge ten bucks for those truffle fries and I’d buy the fuckers. Ought to have a warning on the new menu sayin’ ‘caution: these little fuckers are addictive’. Those fuckers are the crack cocaine of French fries.”

I’d never had my food compared to cocaine before, but I guessed it was a compliment. “Thank you,” I said. “I think.”

He flashed the group a peace sign and turned toward the hallway. “Be back in a couple.”