<strong>Francesca "Frankie" Satriale</strong><br/><br/><em>Oh. My. God</em>.<br/><br/>The sad twit almost made it<strong> too</strong>easy. Every word she spoke dug her grave a little deeper. I tried not to smile as she stammered and stuttered, clearly nervous and flustered. She looked like a timed little mouse, backed in a corner by two alley cats ... those pretty eyes of hers darting about, looking for an exit.<br/><br/>I decided I wasn't going to give her one.<br/><br/>"We're just getting started, Christine," I murmured. "Why leave? Have another beer ... on me. You weren't, um,<em>interrupting</em>anything."<br/><br/>I leaned over the bar, and slammed down another bottle of Budweiser in front of her. "Drink," I said.<br/><br/>"And besides ... the Yamaha out front, that's yours, right?" I asked. "I thought I heard it idling funny out front. Let me check on the bike for you, make sure it's running properly. Stay here, I'll be right back."<br/><br/>I hopped off the barstool, heading for the door. As I made my way outside, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my butterfly knife (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Balisong_(knife)). I kept the knife on my most times when I was working on bikes out back - a few times, guys from gangs tried stealing shit from me, or just tried to assault and rape me. The knife let them know I wasn't really worth the trouble.<br/><br/>I twirled the blade around in my hand, flipping the knife open and shut, open and shut. The Yamaha was a nice bike, if a little boring and safe. So slashing the front tire with the knife was kind of a shame. With a flick of my wrist, the blade of the butterfly knife sliced neatly through the rubber, and immediately a loud<em>whoosh</em>of escaping air spewed forth. I watched for a few moments, making sure the tire went flat ... and then I quickly went to the garage out back.<br/><br/>My toolbox was still out, next to the parts of the Ducati 996 that I was rebuilding. On top of the toolbox sat my 9mm pistol, a Sig Sauer P226 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SIG_Sauer_P226). The pistol was nice for those times that the knife wasn't enough to tell people to fuck off.<br/><br/>I picked up the pistol, and unloaded it. I slipped in an empty clip. I wanted to scare the shit out of our visitor, but I didn't want any accidents.<br/><br/>I went back into the bar, tucking the pistol into my jeans as I walked through the doorway. I didn't say anything as I sat down. Instead, I just took another swig of the Scotch and smiled at Little Miss English.