Story 11
Story 11: The Devil’s Right Hand
“The Devil’s Right Hand. The Devil’s Right Hand. Momma said the pistol was the devil’s right hand.”
The guy leaning on the jukebox had played this song six times in a row and Terrance thought he might scream if he had to hear it again.
“Come on Clinton,” a voice from a booth called out. “we’ve heard it enough already.”
Clinton turned to the voice and hissed, “It’s Ashley and Bob Broward. He took her from me, and I’m not going to let him get away with it.”
“What’s that got to do with the song,” the voice asked.
“The devil’s got a hold on me,” Clinton replied. “All, I can think about it shooting the bastard.”
At that moment, Bob and Ashley walked in. Clinton looked over at the door with eyes full of hatred and anger.
“Don’t make a scene, Clinton,” Ashley pleaded. “I told you we were through when you lit my cat on fire.”
“Lost my temper,” Clinton pleaded. “You know I can’t control my temper.”
“And that is why I left,” Ashley explained. “Bob here is a gentleman.”
Clinton’s eyes got crazy. He stepped over to the door where Bob put up a hand and said, “Don’t take it out on Ashley. Why don’t you and I step outside and settle this like men?”
In the gravel parking lot, the two men faced each other. Clinton rubbed the Smith & Wesson J-Frame in his coat pocket. It comforted him. Bob was bigger and more fit, and Clinton would only use it if he had to.
“I’ll let you throw the first punch, Clinton,” said Bob in a relaxed tone.
The first punch! And Bob wasn’t even nervous. Clinton felt his heart begin to beat a little faster. Bob was going to humiliate him.
“But Ashley’s done with you. It’s your temper, she said. She’ll have nothing to do with you now.”
That’s two put downs now. Clinton’s heart was racing, and his neck was getting hot.
“What’s the matter, Clinton? You scared?”
That’s three. How much was a man supposed to take. Clinton’s ears started to ring, his vision got weird. And his hand went into his pocket.
He pulled out the pistol and shot Bob square in the middle of his face. Bob dropped to the ground.
“At least he won’t be a pretty boy anymore,” thought Clinton.
Inside, Terrence stopped talking and listened. “Was that a gun shot?”
A voice from a booth responded, “Car backfiring. Neither of them had a gun.”
When Clinton came back in alone, Ashley asked in panic, “What did you do, Clinton?”
“I took care of the problem. I bested him.”
“Did you take him down with your left cross?” asked Terrance.
“It was a surprise right,” said Clinton. “The devil’s right hand. He didn’t see it coming.”
With that, Clinton put a few quarters in the juke box and pressed the button for his favorite song.
“The Devil’s Right Hand. The Devil’s Right Hand. Momma said the pistol was the devil’s right hand.”
Some people call it being emotionally high jacked. Others just call it The Devil’s Right Hand. Does it really make any difference?
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