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The Best Revenge

John Ragusa

    Rusty Brull drove into the restaurant’s parking lot and found a space, which he took. Then he got out of his car and entered the restaurant.
    It wasn’t very crowded in there; Brull figured it didn’t get much business. It was out in the hot, remote desert.
    He sat at a table and took off his hat. A waitress walked up to him and handed over a menu.
    “What’ll it be to drink, sir?” she asked.
    “Draft beer,” Brull said.
    “Coming right up.” She went to the bar, picked up a can of beer, opened it, and came back with Brull’s brew.
    “Have you decided what you want?” she asked Brull.
    “I’ll have a cheeseburger and French fries.”
    The waitress wrote it down on a pad. “I’ll return with your order. It’ll take a while.”
    She went into the kitchen.

    A half-hour later, she brought Brull his food. Then she waited on another table occupied by a middle-aged couple, who were bickering loudly.
    “I want a juicy steak,” the wife said.
    “You know we can’t afford to have that!” the husband yelled.
    “You have a lot of money,” the woman said. “You just don’t want to spend it.”
    The waitress looked embarrassed. “May I suggest the pizza? It’s a lot cheaper.”
    “I suppose that’ll do.” The wife appeared petulant.
    When the pizza arrived, the husband complained that it was cold.
    His wife didn’t agree. “It’s just fine, honey,” she said to the waitress.
    “I hate it when you contradict me,” he said.
    “I only do that when you’re wrong, Skippy.”
    Brull was getting annoyed with the pair of them; he wanted a nice, quiet place to eat.
    “You always think I’m wrong,” Skippy said. “I’m right most of the time, Andie.”
    “Please let’s not argue here; people are looking at us,” Andie said in a low voice.
    Skippy stood up. “Listen, everybody! My wife thinks we’re arguing too loudly. If we are doing that, you can just leave right now.”
    Brull had heard enough.
    “Will you two stop hollering and let me eat my cheeseburger?” he shouted.
    “Just eat your meal and leave us alone,” Skippy said, as if he were talking to a child.
    That did it. Brull reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his gun.

    “Do I have to fire this gun to make you quiet?”
    There was a sudden hush in the restaurant. Andie’s voice shattered the silence.
    “I’ve heard about you on my car radio! You’re the man who killed a teenage hitch-hiker because she refused to have sex with you. You’re a monster!”
    “No, Andie, he’s not a monster,” the old man said, showing no fear of the gun. “He’s a coward.”
    Brull wanted Skippy to pay for that remark. But some odd voice in his head told him not to.
    “Can I take my pill?” Skippy asked, gentler this time.
    “Go ahead,” Brull grumbled.
    Skippy took out a bottle from his pocket. He opened it and got out a pill. He swallowed it with some of his soda.
    “What’s it for?” Brull asked, curious.
    “I take it to relieve myself of depression.”
    “Do you get depressed often?” Brull said.
    “Sometimes I get so depressed that I hate to get up in the morning.”
    Even though Brull still wanted to kill Skippy for calling him a coward, he didn’t do it. Instead, he put the gun in his pants pocket, got up from the table, and left the restaurant. He entered his car and drove away.
    Brull was smart. He got his revenge on Skippy by letting him live.

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