Freddie and Huey sat in their motel room, the cable TV on and blaring a movie. Freddie chugged on a bottle of Pepto-Bismol and groaned, “I knew we shouldn’t have eaten at that restaurant.” He shook the bottle and took a second, deeper swig.
“I thought the food was good,” Huey said with his eyes on the screen of the television.
“If you barf it’ll make you feel better,” Huey said. “Really works.”
“Please, Huey, I’m already sick to my stomach,” Freddie complained. He sat on the bed and let his eyes fall once again on an article in a late edition of the newspaper. The article was about them and their Chevy Caprice.
“Here’s the deal,” Freddie said, recapping the bottle. “Huey, are you listening?”
“Yeah, I’m listening,” Huey answered, his eyes riveted to the screen. He bit into a Baby Ruth candy bar and chewed slowly.
“We’re going back tonight. We’re going to get those negatives.” Freddie stood up, his hand on his aching stomach. “We’re gonna make those kids pay.”
Freddie explained that they would get the negatives, push the kids around some, tie the uncle in small knots, and then get out of town with their stash of new money. He said he wanted to get to Minnesota in time to relax at Huey’s mother’s house and watch the Winter Olympics.
Freddie turned off the television.
“Hey, the good part was coming,” Huey complained.
“No, this is the good part,” Freddie argued. “Get your coat and let’s go.”
But before they drove to Uncle’s, Freddie instructed Huey to drive past the restaurant where they had eaten lunch. Freddie rolled down the window and hurled the half-empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol at the front window. The plate-glass window came down in jagged sheets, shattering on the sidewalk. Freddie rolled up the window, burped, and said, “I feel better already.”