Darts, the Ladies’ Man, and the Murderer

I remember I threw a dart in my brother’s leg once. I don’t think he remembers because he was pretty hammered. If he reads this story he’ll finally know how he got that circular scar on his thigh.

I’m sure I was doing straight tequila and Long Island Iced Teas that night because Dennis is an asshole when he orders for me. Years of drinking has taught him what makes you feel like shit the next day and he’s made sure to set a glass of nastiness in front of me as a weird rite of passage. I don’t mind though; I’ve always wanted to be a high-functioning alcoholic, most writers are. Besides, he always gets me top shelf and there are worse ways to die.

As per usual, he was swamped with women, left, right, and center. He’s quite the ladies’ man. If memory serves he had taken out a girl who had just broken up with her boyfriend or some other girly sob story cliche. A shoulder to cry on becomes a dick to ride on, I suppose. She was aching for his attention (read: his cock), so naturally he didn’t give it to her and that made her want him more. The poor thing wasn’t thirsty; she was dehydrated. Now there’s something very odd that happens when a man is seen with another woman vying for his affections: the other sluts start checking out the dude. I’m not sure if it’s hyper competitiveness or curiosity that prompted them, but these broads made a bee line towards Dennis, stiff arming babies and pushing down senior citizens to the shatter of their china hip bones.

But how is someone to keep the attention of such fickle creatures like women? You tell them the story of how your kid sister passed out from hypoglycemia and pissed everywhere and how you fireman carried her to the emergency room thus saving the day. And then you point at her from across the room so everyone in the bar knows she created a miniature Yellow River in the living room of your apartment. Now on most days I’m a good sport about this kind of stuff, but he pulled this shit in our “home base” pub. Christ, our names are on the fucking bar for drinking insane quantities of alcohol! The regulars knew the pissy pants story! Couple this burning embarrassment with my undoubtedly high BAC and the darts in my hand and you have a very dangerous Jessica in your midst.

I threw one of my darts at the dart board. Triple 20s. It was a sign from whatever deity likes to pick on me. I turned towards my brother standing about 15 feet away from me in a crowded bar and flung the dart like Zeus shitting a thunderbolt because let’s be honest, I was throwing like an epileptic with Parkinson’s that night. I swear I heard the metal tip rip through his jeans and puncture flesh. “Oh fuck, I’m so fucked,” I thought.

But Dennis didn’t move. He kept smirking and getting all handsy with the woman next to him. Then it was like that one scene from Shrek “YOU HAVE AN ARROW IN YOUR BUTT!” Only it was “Ummm… You have a dart sticking out of your thigh…” My brother ripped it out like a G and said something along the lines of “What the shit? How’d that get there?” as he slammed it down onto the bar. Relief flooded my stomach; I was so happy he didn’t throw it back at me.

The resident dart god, Ron, picked up the metal cylinder and handed it to me. “I saw that.” I felt a little sheepish. I wouldn’t have felt so ashamed if I had known he was a wanted man hiding from the law in Korea. Interpol picked him up five years later for murder. I bet he offed his victims with darts.

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