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You Deserve This

Bill Tope

On the front porch of an old house
in some need of repair, a dog
quietly lapped at a bowl of water.
12-year old Denis Skinner clomped
up the front porch steps in his heavy
brown work boots and bright white
shirt. He then lumbered across the
wooden planks and kicked the
Dickens’s ancient greyhound, a former
Member of the Skinner stable of track
racers, with all his might.

The creature wailed piteously and
toppled into the porch balusters,
where he lay, cowering. “Hah!”
exclaimed Denis with the full-
throated satisfaction of a job
well-done. As an afterthought, the
boy booted the dog’s water dish off
the porch, where the liquid rained
over the grass. Thirstily, the hound
licked his lips.

At just that moment, a small blond child
appeared at the door of the old house
and put her body between those of Denis
and the dog. “Get back Nettie,” warned
Denis ominously. “Don’t you hurt my dog,
Denis Skinner,” she pleaded with little-
girl urgency and sudden, copious tears.

“Isn’t really your dog,” declared Denis
with perverse glee. “Used to be my dog;
we just gave him to you. Besides,” he
added, “it’s what he deserves, licking your
fingers instead of mine! Everyone should
get what they deserve; that’s what my dad
always says.”

“My daddy paid your daddy for our dog,”
she pointed out. “It isn’t fair what your old
man paid,” he protested. “Not enough! I
deserve more.”
“A deal is a deal,” she insisted. Denis
grinned, said, “I just added a ‘kicker,’”
then cracked up, amused by his own
cleverness.

Nettie frowned, then stamped her tiny
foot. “He’s mine now!” she told him.
“So you leave Buttercup alone.” He
laughed raucously. “Buttercup?” he
repeated. “That’s a girl name. He’s a
boy dog. Name’s Harry!.” Denis
loomed over the two of them, his
heart pumping faster in anticipation
of inflicting more brutality.

She thought hard for a moment; then,
knowing how mean the young man was,
said, “What’ll you take to let my dog
alone?” A look of cunning crossed
Denis’s bloated face as he paused to
consider her offer. At last he asked,
“Your dad got a folding knife, like he
keeps in his pocket?” Denis vividly
recalled seeing Mr. Dickens
brandish a fine specimen of such a
knife on the day he purchased the
greyhound. This deal would thus
settle another score for Denis.

After scarcely thinking, the little girl
nodded. “Yes. He’s got a folding knife,”
admitted Nettie, “but he keeps it in his
drawer.”

“Get it,” he ordered imperiously When
she looked uncertain, he added, “If you
give me your dad’s folding knife, I won’t
kick Harry anymore.” She appeared to
turn this over in her mind. “And If you
don’t get it,” he warmed, “then I’ll kill this
old dog.” He drew his booted foot back.
in warning. Nettie’s eyes grew wide with
fear and she said earnestly,

“I’ll get it now,” and she disappeared back
through the front door and into the house.
While she was gone, Denis feinted a kick
at the dog, who flinched and sat hunkered
in his corner of the porch. Denis chuckled
grotesquely.

In a few minutes time, Nettie emerged
from the house, bearing a small
wooden box. “Here it is,” she said
regretfully, holding it up. Denis grinned,
reached greedily for the box, but she
withdrew it back out of his reach.

He bristled angrily, advanced a step
toward the girl. “How do I know that
you won’t hurt my dog again?” she asked
reasonably. He smirked. “What do I want
to mess with that broken down old dog
for anyway?” He snorted. “We just gave
him to you because he’s all worn out.
Besides,” he went on snidely, “I promised,
didn’t I? Now, give me what I deserve.”

She surrendered the box. Clutching it to
his meaty chest, he immediately turned to
the dog and lashed out violently once more,
kicking him soundly in the ribs. The old
dog whined anew and then lay still. Denis
laughed malevolently.

The little girl said not a word, but blinked
silently up at the older child. Snatching
open the wooden box, Denis searched
hurriedly through the sheets of brown
tissue paper but could turn up no knife.

There was nothing there. “You lied!” he
hissed at her, baring his teeth. “No,”
she said calmly, “here’s the knife.” She
opened her fist and there inside was
an exquisite, bone-handled pocket
knife, the kind which collectors sought
after. Seeing the knife again at last,
Denis’s black eyes gleamed and grew
small and hard as he now coveted the
knife as well. He held his hand out
expectantly.

Delicately opening the longest blade,
Nettie approached Denis, carrying the
bauble before her. Greed danced like a
green beacon in his eyes. He licked his
lips. His fingers twitched. Suddenly
drawing the knife back, she plunged it
deep into Denis’s soft, round belly, to
the full length of the blade.

Denis’s lips formed a silent “O” as if
he were greatly surprised, and he folded
soundlessly into a heap on the floor of
the porch. “There,” said Nettie, with no
trace of rancor, “now you finally got what
you deserve.” She added, “And I hope
you’re happy with it.”

She pulled the blade from Denis’s belly
and wiped it on the tail of his bright white
shirt, then restored the knife to its box.
Denis’s eyes were glazed with shock but
he uttered not a sound as he lay dying.
As the door closed softly behind Nettie,
Buttercup, fully recovered now from
Denis’s angry kicks, lapped at the
spreading pool of red.

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