with
genuine fright. “You know this dude? Is he hoping to play Joker in
the next Batman flick? Jesus. I’m going to hit the john.”
Brad was a heavy metal enthusiast who wore
tattoos of Eddie, the skeletal-like mascot of the group Iron
Maiden, on muscular biceps that peeked out from under his navy blue
polo. He spent as much time in the gym working on his physique as
he spent angling to beat the market with the actively traded mutual
fund portfolios he managed for one of the largest brokerage
companies in the country. A belt consisting of bullets, which
exposed his desire to return to the 1980s metal scene, secured an
expensive pair of blue jeans. Deeply tanned with clear blue eyes
that met every person with a cheery smile, he had flecks of silver
at the temples of his slicked-back brown hair, the only trait that
convinced others he’d recently turned forty.
Having one day caught Alexander gazing at
Marisa with more than just friendship in mind, Brad confronted the
situation by ridiculing him in private, stating that Marisa would
never consider him as a potential boyfriend. Since then, whenever
they crossed paths, Brad took great pleasure in tapping around the
issue by pretending that Alexander took home a different woman each
night.
Brad stopped next to Alexander at the bar,
leaning his back against the counter so he could watch the
customers standing around the tables spread out before them.
“Alexander the Great,” he said. Because Iron Maiden had performed a
song named after the world famous conqueror, Brad found it
essential to repeat the title each time they met, which served as
the only positive remark he’d ever made in Alexander’s
presence.
“See any beauties?” asked Brad, eyeing a
brunette with a huge rack. “Anyone you want to take home?” He
chuckled. “I can put in a good word. Help you get laid. How long
has it been, anyway? A decade?” He laughed again, a hollow sound
that reverberated with the same pitch and pattern each time he
found something funny. “Two decades?” He shook his head in
disbelief. “I don’t know how you do it. I’d bust. I’d literally
bust.”
“Really,” asked Alexander with a smirk. “How
would that look, you busting? And busting what? A move? Your balls?
What would you bust, since you said it’s literal?”
“What do you mean?” Brad asked, realizing
that Alexander had insulted him, but unsure exactly how or in what
way.
“Amazing. How do you process a thought with
no brain activity? How does that work?”
Brad pushed off the bar and turned toward
Alexander, glaring down at him, winding back his arm, prepared to
launch a vicious assault. “You’re insulting me?”
“I guess not, since you’re questioning it.”
Alexander’s sarcasm had gotten him into similar jams throughout
this life, but he always relied on his quick wit to bail him out
and it never let him down. To avoid watching Brad’s right fist
smash into the eye, he decided to divert the man’s attention. “It
must bother you to always say ‘Alexander the Great’ each time we
meet. Why don’t you come up with something that rhymes with it? You
should try something true and original. How about ‘Alexander, I
hate’?”
“Hmmm,” he grunted, grasping his chin as
though doing so induced deep thought. “I like that one: Alexander,
I hate.”
“But see, you can’t use an insult I created
for you.”
Brad stroked his chin with greater
intensity. “Right. Something true. Something original.”
To avoid laughing in his face, Alexander
said, “How are your funds doing for your clients?” Brad had come to
the irrational conclusion that his market “intellect,” and constant
need to be the center of attention, would one day earn him a
featured role on CNBC, the premier cable channel that focused on
the stock market.
Brad’s wicked grin returned, glad to reflect
on his favorite subject. “It’s insanity. With the market wavering
all over the place, my clients aren’t