Pussle Gut walks into my shop this morning, no hello or how are you; he's out of breath.
He yells, "Stephen I gotta problem and I need your help."
Pussle Gut is about sixty-five, graying hair and a belly that proceeds him into any room he enters. I don't dislike him but he makes it awful hard to stand in his presence for any length of time, that kind.
"What's the problem?"
"You know Ramrod, don't 'ya." I nod yes. "He's in the hospital 'bout to die and I need your advice."
All I think is why me.
"Look, he continues, you know his has those nice handguns, 'bout six Glocks and a couple of nice Smiths, and that 'ole long barreled .357 magnum. Well, I need you to tell me how to approach 'em so's I can buy 'em 'fore he dies."
I released a long sigh....then, "Pussle Gut (he hates it when I refer to that way) leave them alone."
"Now by God you know that sorry-assed kid of his is just gonna get 'em and pawn the heck out of those nice guns, he'll let 'em go for nothing."
"It's none of you business, leave them alone." Respect and the lack of tack are terms he wouldn't understand, so I didn't bother explaining.
"No, dammit I won't leave 'em alone, 'taint right."
His face is flushed and a light bead of sweat worked its way down his cheek. I waited a slow count of six, took a step towards him and said, "Get out of my shop, please."
Low class tacky butthole.
He did. He hereby receives the first ever 'Bucket of Sash Weights Award.'
Please folks, don't make me hand out any more awards. Thank you.