When I got home, the police were there talking to Maricel. When our fat white dude with dreds was done harassing my nearly comatose cousin, he came back here looking for something. Maricel said he came into the store yelling and screaming about something that made not a lick of sense to her. Then he grabbed her by the shirt, called her a bitch and said that he wanted it back. He did not elaborate on what "it" was. He smelled like liquor, just like they said he did at the hospital. So she grabbed the boxcutter under the counter and stuck him in the hand with it. Four times, as hard as she could. Hence the blood all over the floor of my store. Good thing I went with the linoleum over carpet. I did not feel as flip as I sound here. At the time my hands were shaking. After the police left, I hugged Maricel so hard she couldn't breathe.
"He's lucky I didn't go for the shotgun." She said referring to the sawed-off shotgun I kept under the counter. If the police saw it, they didn't say anything about the present my grandpa gave me when I opened the store. He didn't want me to be one of those comic store owners murdered for twenty bucks.
"Christ, what the hell has Weezer done?" I wondered.
"He wouldn't say what it was he wanted." Maricel said. "He was just drunk and mad."
"Your aunt was right, you aren't safe here." I said.
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