The Wawa Incident
by D. Grant DeMan
A blood-red dead-air spring sunset spread across South Wawa as Henery
Kim pushed up the display tab on a Milky Way carton and settled it next to
the M&M's, something he'd not done for years, a job that might seem strange
to his Lobo Township Police Squad. He smiled imagining Sergeant Beau
Craddock's mock, "Hey Lieutenant, they demote you to Candy Bar Patrol? Oh
Henery! You're just a Baby Ruth now, ain't ya?" Last month, when the family
chose to vacation in the old country, Henery became a natural to caretake
the store. He'd spent plenty of time in Seoul, and felt comfortable behind
the counter.
It had been "Henery," not "Henry," for his parents, fresh from the
Orient, hoped an English name would help him fit in. Though their spelling
was a mite off, Henery grew content with his unique appellation.
The bell chimed as two youths entered. Funny, you don't see many
Mexicans with pimples, Henery thought; and seldom a shave-top Black keeping
such company. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"
Lately most of the neighborhood had gone upscale. New condo buildings
lined most of the once-shabby streets where he played rucky-puck, capped
with the Chez Tropicana's grand opening in the Falise Hotel down the
boulevard. Why they now had valet parking. Whoop-de-doo!
"Let's have a look at them knives in the case, Slopehead," the Mexican
said quietly.
"Hey, Rich, don't call him a Slopehead," the Black nudged his comrade,
glaring him down with a withering deadly eye.
"Squarehead, Gook maybe. I'm Korean, not Chinese or Vietnamese."
Henery's smile broke into a laugh. He remembered these types from his
youth. Vacuous brains, empty pockets. They rode his ass through Wawa
Collegiate until scholarship took him into law school at York's Osgoode
Hall to which he added a Criminology Doctorate from Western. He felt the
reassurance of a Glock G 26 holstered in the small of his back, and eyed
Dad's Browning sawed-off hog's leg behind the counter.
The folks could now well afford to move into a penthouse and take
things easy, but a hard life of work is not easily put aside and, after
all, this little store put through school two lawyers, one college teacher,
a nationally renowned surgeon, and a bio-engineer. Henery's chest swelled
with satisfaction as he thought of his accomplished family.
"So can ya open the case?" Rich repeated.
"You may view the knives from there. What do you want to buy?" Henery
smiled.
"That one looks about right, hey Walt?" The Black nodded and hunched.
"That's a Kershaw, Ken Onion Whirlwind. I used it but once to
slit the throat of a fellow who claimed my cash drawer as his. It's a
bargain at twenty-five - two sawbucks and a fin." Henery was having fun.
"Yeah, right. Okay, twenty five, and don't bother to wrap it." They
quickly left, and Henery called the Wawa Police.
"You dimwitted pile of moldy manure. You spent our last freekin' bucks
on that shiveroo. Why'n cha just grab it Rich?"
"You get a good look at the Chink? He's some karate nut or something.
Not to mess with. Look at this as an investment: We get a car, some stuff -
cards and like that - and blow town for final, Walt. Wave everfuggineternal
goodbye to this here boring eruption of pus." Richard the Great had spoken.
Slam! They jumped at the clap of a door on the purple car across the
street lit by the Restaurant marquee, and subsequent shouting alerted them
further. "You son of a purple frog! You screw that whoring tub of festering
carp guts night and day and then you bring us both here? May your balls
roast in volcanic hog spew!" A young woman seemed rather annoyed at the
black-tied driver.
"Maria, Maria, Maria. Now calm down, Puss. Sheesh, you'll get us
arrested."
"Just get out. Get the blue devil crap out, and don't be home when I
get there, you psychotic glob of raunchy sinus clots." The luxury vehicle
sped off.
"Hey lady, want a couple of real men?" Rich waved his new knife picking
his gold tooth with the point.
"Real men? You two? A couple of green scabs floating in septic juice?"
She stood back laughing. "Real men! All men are scummy slime molds and you
two look like the trash that crawls squirming at the bottom. Whatcha going
to do, rape me? You couldn't hold it long enough to pissificate.
Figpuckers!" She tore the front of her evening gown: "Here, ain't these
some boobys, guys? I just ripped a five thousand dollar Jean Paul Galtier
Original, here's the keys to my eighteen cylinder Bugatti Veyron worth
nearly a million, and my baboon-arsed husband's Bently Azure that he just
drove out. Looking good, you radioactive hog swillers? Here's my Gucci hand
bag; the cards to give you the moon and stars, and bars; my necklace,
brooch and rings of Millenium Antwerp diamonds set by DeBrittz. Rape me?"
"Rape me here in the street?" A siren wailed in the distance. "Come
on. I'm reaching out to you."
"You insufferable nauseating bitch!" The blade seemed to pull Richard's
hand toward her left breast where surgically it sliced deep, and Walter's
open mouth caught a pint or so of bubbling, gushing arterial vermilion. She
fell flailing to the sidewalk with Rich on top. Walter wrestled the knife
away.
"Godogodogodogod. What in the name of Christos...? You killed her."
Walt wiped the knife on his shirt and spat out the woman's heart blood.
"Oh Lord. I didn't mean...she pushed me...you saw that, Walt!" It was
then that he felt the impact; his best buddy slimed in scarlet crimson, and
knew somehow that this couldn't be undone.
"I gotta get help." Walter began to run toward the store.
Thirty seconds later Lieutenant Henery Kim turned at the bell to see a
lunging bloody knife-wielding figure and fired into the open mouth.
Sixteen year old Walter Jones, his head erupting like a decomposing
water melon, never even knew if Kim used the shotgun or the pistol.
