Bad Influence - Krazy Kris {Original Short Story}

Another story about the two Emmas.

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Krazy Kris

“You’re gorgeous you are, really gorgeous, really really gorgeous”, drawled the drunk, ugly, short old man over and over. Emma just gave him one of those uncomfortable, tight lipped smiles, but he seemed totally oblivious to the fact that he was being a complete nuisance, and an utter bore. We didn’t know him, he just interrupted our conversation and the pub was rammed, so we were kind of stuck, but we found out the next day that he was called Krazy Kris and he was a drug dealer who had only been out of prison for a few days.

I leaned over and whispered in Emma’s ear, just to relieve the boredom of listening to this tedious, drivelling stranger, who showed no sign of shutting up, “why don’t you just tell him to fuck off.” Looking back, I guess it was kind of obvious that I’d said something about him, and he did have about a quarter of a century’s worth of life experience on us; he must have been at least 45!

Anyway, as I tuned my head away from Emma’s ear, I saw the repugnant old man pull something out from under his coat and I felt cold steel on the middle of my forehead. “What the fuck did you say? WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?” I just stared dumb-struck and slack jawed down the long, threatening barrel, that looked like a Dirty Harry gun or the kind used to play Russian Roulette. Then the miserable little toad turned to Emma, “What the fuck did she say?” Emma managed to stutter, “n-n-nothing, I d-d-don’t know, I c-can’t remember.”

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, NOW, BOTH OF YOU, NOW, LEAVE BEFORE I BLOW HER FUCKING BRAINS OUT.”

As he said this he removed the gun from my head, so I leaned forward, stretching out my arms to swipe something from the edge of a nearby table, which I swiftly placed in the large pockets of my coat. Emma grabbed my hand and we ran from there and the crowd parted for us, aware that something unusual had occurred, below the din of the music, in the back corner of the lively pub.

We raced down the high street for about a quarter of a mile without uttering a word, until I slowed down panting and said, “Hey, Emma, do you want your drink?” and pulled two small glasses from my over-sized pockets. She turned and looked at me, incredulously, “You got our drinks? I can't believe you did that, Emma. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. How did you even remember them?”

She didn’t sound impressed, she sounded shocked and horrified. I shrugged, surprised at her strong reaction, and handed her a drink thinking, "those drinks were expensive; I wasn't about to abandon them because of some boring old psycho," while she just continued to shake her head in disbelief.