"This one was a pain in the ass to find the first time I delivered here." Jack pointed at a set of houses on the right.
Clark nodded, his expression a mixture of boredom and apprehension. Jack figured the guy would rather be getting smashed with his beer-drinking buddies. He couldn't blame him, in a way. There were things Jack would prefer to be doing right now, particularly with Corona, though none of them involved booze and only some of them involved keeping their clothes on.
"Anyway, take a look at those addresses there." Jack pointed at the houses on the right. "Most streets have the house numbers increasing in one direction and decreasing in the other."
"They do?" Clark blinked. "I never noticed that before."
Jack glanced at him, wondering if -- and hoping -- he was just kidding, but on his face was a genuine deer-in-the-headlights expression. Jack held in a groan.
"Anyway, this area is all screwed up. Those addresses over there go up, down, and up again." He pointed and counted off the numbers. "The first one is 506, then the others are 516, 522, 508, 534, and so on. The one we're looking for is 508. It's that dark green duplex right there."
"Duplex? I only see one door in front."
"The other door is on the side." Jack parked in front of the house and shut off the engine. "This is one of the really old parts of the city that were here before the corporations bought everything. The streets and addresses sometimes didn't make sense, and neither did the way the houses were built. The companies made the areas they reconstructed nice and orderly, but the places they left alone haven't changed much in the past few decades."
Jack got out of the car and started recording as he walked up to the front door, carrying the delivery box in his left hand and keeping his right hand under his duster, near his gun. He glanced at the screen to remind himself of the balance due, then knocked on the door. Behind him, Clark let out a soft sigh.
The door opened, revealing a guy about the same age as Clark, wearing shorts and a T-shirt with a football team's logo on the front. He had a flat-top haircut and a smirk that made Jack want to push him out in front of a speeding train. He held his hands out and kept smirking, obviously expecting Jack to hand the pizza over before getting the money.
Why do so many people do that? Jack tried to keep his disgust from showing, but not very hard.
"Twenty-nine ninety-seven," he said, somehow managing to sound calm.
The guy kept smirking and holding his hands out, and after a few seconds he finally raised an eyebrow. When Jack didn't react, he raised his hands a little higher, as if to say, "Well? Hand it over, already!"
Jack repeated the price and waited.
The guy remained silent. He kept his hands out, palms up, and stared down his nose at Jack with a smugness that made Jack want to kick the bastard's nuts up into his empty skull.
Fine, you wanna play games? I can do this all night. Jack stared right back and repeated the total through clenched teeth.
After a long moment, the prick finally glanced over his shoulder and shouted at someone inside the house. "Hey, this guy is fuckin' with me about the pizza!"
Jack raised one eyebrow. How'd you like it if I shove this pizza right up your bloated ass?
Prick turned back around, dug some cash out of his pocket, and held out a hundred-dollar bill. Jack gnashed his teeth.
Lovely. You order one of the cheapest things we've got, and then pay with a hundred. He shook his head. "The company doesn't accept anything bigger than a twenty."
Prick's smirk vanished and a glare took its place. "All I have is hundreds!"
Jack shrugged. "We only accept twenties or under. It's policy -- the company's way of cutting its losses when one of us gets mugged. And you're informed of it when you place the order"
Prick's glare intensified and he thrust the hundred into Jack's face.
"I said, I can't take that," Jack said through clenched teeth.
"Just give me my fuckin' pizza!"
"We're done, here," Jack snarled. He turned and walked back to his hearse.
"Hey! Hey, asshole! Get back here!"
Jack heard footsteps running toward him.
"Gimme my fuckin' pizza, you little shit!"
Jack started to turn, but then Prick grabbed his arm and yanked him around. Jack swung the delivery box and crashed its edge into the side of Prick's head. While Prick staggered, Jack kicked his legs out from under him. Prick landed on his ass and squealed like a child.
You fucking waste of cum. Jack sneered down at him. Your daddy should've squirted you all over your mommy's tits.
More running footsteps came from inside the house. Jack glanced at the doorway as a skinny, dark-haired guy charged down the stairs with a baseball bat held over his head. Jack snorted, drew his hand cannon, and aimed it at Skinny Prick. Skinny Prick stopped in his tracks and his eyes almost popped out of his skull.
"Drop it," Jack snapped, and Skinny Prick let the bat fall to the ground. "Go back inside."
Skinny Prick backpedaled and tripped on the stairs. Somehow, he managed to stay upright long enough to get back into the house.
"Ohmigod!" Clark blurted.
Prick stared at the gun, trembling, and crab-walked toward the stairs. Jack kept an eye on him as he returned to his car.
"Oh shit," Clark mumbled, staring at Jack's gun. "Oh crap oh Jesus oh shit oh shit oh shit --"
"Oh, stop gibbering and get back in the car." Jack got in and waited for Clark to join him, returned the gun to his shoulder holster, and roared off down the street. "In case you're wondering, I have a permit for the gun."
"Sure. Okay."
"And I have a damn good reason for carrying it. I've lost count of the number of dipshits who've tried to mug me. It doesn't happen as often now that they know I'll put twelve-millimeter rounds in both of their ass cheeks if they try anything."
Clark merely nodded, looking numb. After staring out the windshield for a long moment, he mumbled, "I really need to pee."
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