Member-only story
Isharon Isharon
Clarence feels as though he should be intimidated as the car shrieks to a halt on the curb beside him, but his response is closer to that of morbid curiosity. A man in a polo shirt comes boiling out of the driver’s seat, lurching towards him in a cloud of apoplexy. Sitting in his compact sports car he seemed normal-sized from a short distance away, but this man is in fact nothing short of a colossus: he looks like if one of the cyborgs from Universal Soldier had been specifically designed for hostile deployment into a Buffalo Wild Wings. Lydia is direly uncomfortable but cannot transmit her urgency to Clarence, who will not compromise his leisurely gait even for the specter of impending violence.
“You like to talk shit?!” the stranger bellows as he approaches them. This isn’t an accurate complaint on his part, as Clarence has not actually said anything to incur this fellow’s ire; rather, he had shown him his middle finger after this man had almost hit him and Lydia with his car whilst speeding out of a parking garage. Clarence is from Massachusetts originally and thus does not think much of insulting reckless or otherwise incompetent drivers; this man, who sounds to be from Louisiana, clearly thinks otherwise, and Clarence’s gesture has created a problem that to his mind cannot be solved if left to its own accord. Hence: “You want me to slam your fuckin’ head on this pavement?”
