Keeping The Record. Travis Richardson

      The Dawg had his hands under the table, and his lined face was hard. “What’d you do that for, shorty?”

      Remmy was hitting 11 on a pissed off scale of 10. His inadequate height was a personal issue not to be discussed with a soon-to-be dead pawnbroker. “Put your hands up where I can see ’em.”

      G-Dawg shook his head slowly. “Best you drop your gun if you wanna keep your head.”

      Remmy didn’t have to have it spelled out for him. G-Dawg had a shotgun underneath the counter.

      “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot here,” Remmy said.

      “You think so?”

      “Yeah, you see he was reachin’ for—”

      “Hold up now. You come in here askin’ for me, and then you blow Rafael to smithereens, messin’ up my sword collection. And you call that getting off on the wrong foot?”

      “You saw him reaching for a gun or something.”

      “Something like an insulin pump he has on his belt. It helps him regulate his blood sugar. Especially when something crazy happens like you walking in here waving that gun around.”

      Remmy shrugged. What could he say?

      G-Dawg’s nostril’s flared. Looked like he was building up enough anger to pull the trigger and send them both on a one-way ticket to hell.