Polite

by Steve Mitchell

“So, wait, Dude.  Hold on.  That was you?  You burned that guy’s garage?”  asked Brett.

“Yeah,” shrugged Justin.

“Was it the voices again?”

“Yeah.”

“Dude, you’re gonna get in serious trouble.  Why do you do what the voices say?”  Brett opened another beer.  The sun dipped below the fence line.

“They don’t tell me what to do,” said Justin. “They’re polite.  They ask me.  They give me advice.”

“Yeah, advice.”  Brett threw his bottle cap into the grass.  “Well, you’re gonna get busted and you’re gonna get locked up.”

“Maybe.”

“Just say no when they ask you to do stuff.”

Justin frowned.  “That would be rude.”

“Whatever, Dude.”

“I don’t want to be rude.”

“Tell the voices to fuck off.”

They fell silent.

They drank in the dark.

The stars awoke, one by one.

A cricket chirped from the neighbors yard.

Brett’s dog found the bottle cap.

Mind you, this is only our advice as he is your friend.  It is not our place to say, but, were it us, we would obtain a fancy cocktail sword, a blue one, and stab your friend…in the neck.

“Hey, Man,” Justin cleared his throat. “You got any cocktail swords?”

—-

© Steve Mitchell 2015

 

Advertisements