Levi Strauss remembered everything that’d ever happened to him. Yes, everything. In fact, some of his earliest memories were of floating peacefully in his mother’s womb, enjoying her warm, relaxing amniotic bath, with not a care in the world. No ignoble enterprise to be engaged in, no grueling schedule to keep, no cabal of crooked loan sharks to answer to.
Levi wasn’t the famous inventor of blue jeans, after all, but rather a man born nearly a century later; an enforcer, a dragoon, a breaker of kneecaps and elbows. A man on retainer for the past eighteen years to Tommy Two Diapers, the most foul-mouthed, incontinent prick of a mobster Levi had ever met. And Levi remembered everybody. His recollections of every twisting, grimacing loser begging for just one more day to pony up the dough were as crisp in his mind after eighteen years then as if he’d broken those poor bastards not eighteen minutes ago.
“C’mon, Mr. Strauss…gimme ‘til Saturday,” the man balled on the floor at Levi’s feet all but squeaked.
“Nope,” Levi sighed.
The only other two customers in the pool hall beat it out onto the street while the indifferent bartender disappeared off into the back. Levi picked a pool cue from the nearby rack and thoughtfully tested its heft.
The desperate man tried one last gambit. “I’ll give ya five hundred easy just to forget ya found me! Huh, whatdaya say?”
“Forget? Me? Not likely,” Levi said, bringing the stick up over his head.
Who knew Tyler Durden read this blog!