August, 1999
Scott Ditzler Is that him? They rolled up on him at Sonic of all places. Yeah, that’s him. You ready to go? He nodded, already had the padlock in his hand, the latch looped around his knuckle. They pulled the truck up right behind him and it was on from the start. You been talking shit about my sister? Get out of the car, motherfucker. You been talking shit about my sister? No? That’s not what she’s been saying. He was trying to act hard at first, said he didn’t have time for this kind of bullshit, just trying to get himself a fucking limeade. I didn’t say shit about nobody’s sister. Then that padlock came across and changed the conversation real quick. It didn’t matter who had or hadn’t said what about anybody. It was all mixed up at first, him swinging big and wild, and the two of them coming in with the boots and that lock. People honking, some lady hanging out the window, screaming about calling the fucking cops. Who’s talking shit now, motherfucker? Who’s talking shit now? The boots coming down on him. Don’t you ever say shit about my sister, motherfucker. You hear me? Blood on the hot concrete, him coughing and not saying shit, trying to curl up, trying to crawl away. His box still rattling in the trunk. Some blonde carhop on her fucking roller-skates, standing there with her hand over her mouth. People outside their cars now. Come on, he said, that padlock still gripped in his hand. Let’s get the fuck out of here. But those boots still coming down on him. Who’s talking shit now? Huh? Who’s talking shit now, motherfucker? They hadn’t even been out looking for him, just happened to see his Camaro parked