Benny always said that if he ever turned up dead, it’d be her fault: she’d either drive him to suicide or kill him herself. And she’s smart too, so she’d probably TRY to make it look like a suicide or accident or something, so don’t trust what you see. None of that poisoning bullshit, either: if she kills him she’ll make it gnarly and memorable – be a real messy bitch about it. With twinkling bar lights casting their dim light on slick wooden surfaces and smudged pint glasses, Benny would regale anyone who’d listen about how wild his “little pony” can be, for better or for worse.
He’d told tales of her biting him, scratching him, shouting at him, throwing glasses and bottles at him or at his head, slamming her small and ineffective fists against him in her little feminine rages. He’d tell about their fights to friends and strangers alike, not holding back from admitting to defending himself when the occasion arose – which it did, a lot. His “little pony” grew up in a south Georgia trailer park after all, he’d justify. She's white trash tough. Then Benny’d sing lines from some country song lamenting a lover that’s a wild, feisty redneck and how their trailer rocks when they’re fighting and rolls when they’re making up.
If they both got black eyes but still loved each other, well then that’s real love.
“You don’t really tame women like Robin,” he said, grinning around a highball of foul-smelling scotch. “You force them into submission.” Then he laughed along with the other men lining the bar. Starting to cough a bit at how hilarious he found himself, Benny gestured at the bartender for another scotch.
“Benny, you crack me up. I don’t see how poor Robin puts up with you,” drawled a redneck at the bar as he lit a cigarette.
“She likes it. That and… well, you know.” Benny chuckled again lasciviously, winking at the redneck.
“Well all I know is if I had a woman look like that, I wouldn’t let her leave the house,” said some other guy at the bar to Benny’s left. The bartender chortled in response to that and gave a “here, here” to the man. “Or the bed!”
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“Hey now, watch it…” warned Benny to the men who were getting a bit too familiar, but with a grin that belied the tenor of his growl. He sipped his scotch again and went with the flow as the topic shifted from his wife, Robin, and to the football game airing on a nearby television. Three quarters later, he finished his fourth scotch and looked down to the large, gaudy watch sparkling from his wrist.
It was late. Really late.
He waved two twenty dollar bills at the bartender, “Smokey”, and then bid his bar mates farewell.
“Hope Robin doesn’t kill you for getting home late and shitwrecked, Benny!” someone quipped. Benny laughed and gave a wave as he exited the bar doors, stepping out and into a chilly Georgia evening. The bar’s doorway mawed out onto the sidewalk of the downtown square, lit merrily with streetlights adorned in red ribbons and green wreaths.
But the dazzling scene found itself wasted on Benny, who was himself also wasted, appearing more like a swaying blur in Benny’s field of vision. Humming some indiscernible tune, Benny ambled in zig-zags down the sidewalk, a halo of cigarette smoke circling overhead and leaving an ash-gray trail in the purple-black night sky behind him. Being Christmas Eve, most everyone in town was at home and certainly not downtown: the strange domain of the barflies and lonely middle-aged women and people who’d long since forgotten what actual holiday joy was had all historically congregated at Smoker’s Pub. It was a sad little dive bar tradition that’s likely popular in a small town anywhere.
The trail of smoke followed Benny down the sidewalk as he made his way to his 1995 Saturn, parked far enough away to not attract suspicion (folks driving by loved to gossip) but close enough to walk to. He was probably too drunk to drive but it was only a few blocks and Benny had done this a thousand, no a million times before. And no Logsville cop would take him in on Christmas Eve anyway, so who cares. He’d stay awake on the drive by armoring himself for Robin’s bitching when he got home and coming up with an excuse.
Yet early the next morning, when Benny did in fact turn up dead -- a lake of blood, warm and softly steaming, circling his body that was somehow sitting upright in seiza on his knees, chin down at his chest while his dark eyes stared wide with dead intensity, a twinkling, silver fireplace stoker piercing him straight through his belly and out his back -- there was in fact only one person that everyone decidedly named as the at-fault party: his “little pony”, Robin.
