Busted - Or: The Shock Of Nonrecognition

“Having trouble?” he said.

I spun. Fuck. The fat little son of a bitch was standing right behind me with his keys in his hand and a placid smile on his fat-son-of-a-bitch face.

“Why are you here?” I gasped. His smile slipped halfway to his chin and he looked baffled. So it was a stupid thing to say, but he was supposed to be in his office until he went to lunch at 12:15, just like every day I surveilled him while planning my revenge.

The one day he had to do something off the schedule. And now I was busted.

Well, almost. My car was at one end of the deck and his was at the other – I’d parked as far away as I could. He hadn’t seen it yet, the thousands of dollars of damage and the steamer in the front seat.

“I… left something in my car,” he said as if I’d accused him of drinking from the carton. I wanted to smash his face in. “My cell. I left it in the glove box. Did you lock your keys in your car? You can use it to call someone.”

He squinted at me. “Hey,” he said, “do I know you from somewhere?”

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