The Ice Squabble

It was a typical bright and sunny summer's day down in the heart of the southern United States. As the temperatures rose, patience dropped as people scurried in and out of the local gas station, collecting large bags of ice. The lines were long and the lines on the thermometers longer as the temperatures soared near the hundred degree mark. An overwhelming number of male residents neglected wearing a shirt to the store despite the sign hanging on the door which read: "No Shirt? No Shoes? No Service." Regardless, the salesclerks served the men, fearing the consequences otherwise. It was known that many of the local male citizens carried guns with them at all times, even when making a quick run to the store. It was just a way of life, and it was considered normal.

Approaching the gas station in his mud stained pickup truck was Larry Bubba, one of the roughest guys in town. Fazed not by society or anything else, Larry was an opinionated thirty year old who had too much to say in too little time. If he had an opinion on something (which was always the case), everyone knew about it. Even people who didn't know they knew about it knew about it. This, too, was a way of life and considered normal by the citizens of the small town.

Once Larry pulled his truck into the parking lot of the gas station, he hopped out of his truck, his black boots disrupting the stillness of the dirt beneath them. He slammed his door shut, causing the decal on the back of his truck to fall off. It was a rather large decal of the rebel flag, but over time it had lost its adhesiveness and fell off frequently. Larry refused to buy a new one, so he was forced to replace the fallen decal almost every time he shut the door or something bumped against the truck. Grumbling words under his breath, Larry walked to the back of his truck and replaced the decal, glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror. After the decal was in place, he walked over to the side mirror of his truck and fixed his baseball cap on his head. It, too, illustrated his rebel pride as it featured the rebel flag on the front of it. Satisfied with its position on his nearly hairless head, he smiled at himself in the mirror before walking to the entrance of the gas station.

Approaching it, he saw a friend of his standing at the doorway. The glass door was propped open by a twenty-four can pack of Pepsi, Larry's personal choice of soft drink. His friend was standing next to the carton of soda as his gaze turned to Larry as he approached the entrance.

"Hot enough for ye, Bubba?" called out Larry's friend.

Larry heartily laughed and replied, "You ain't kiddin', Mike. 'Sposed to reach a hundr'd degrees today." He took his cap off to wipe off the sweat that had collected on his head, replacing the cap once the deed was done.

"What're you doin' this way in town, Bub? Why ain't you home keepin' out o' this heat?"

"Need some ice. How else am I 'sposed to drink my Pepsi?"

Mike laughed and clapped Larry on the back as he entered the store. "Good'n, Bub."

Larry grinned while he walked over to the freezer where the ice bags were kept. He opened up the door only to be disappointed when there wasn't a bag left to be found in the tiny store.

"What the--?!" exclaimed Larry. He slammed the door shut and stormed over to the cash register where two rather scrawny male employees stood. "How'm I 'sposed to get cooled down from this hot weather if there ain't no ice nowhere to be found!"

Both employees jumped at his shouting. They stared at him with widened eyes that were growing wider as each second passed.

"U-Um, sir, we sold out of ice. That man right there bought the last b-bag," answered one of the boys as he pointed to a male customer who was walking to his truck, bag of ice in hand.

Larry stormed outside and confronted the rather large and hefty man. "That's my bag of ice!"

The balding man gave Larry an odd look. "Who d'you think you 're? I got the last bag. This ain't yours!"

"Is too! Trust me, 'f you know what's good fer ye you'll hand over that there bag of ice," Larry said, pointing to the bag of already halfway melted ice.

"Listen here, if you know what's good fer ye, you'll get out o' my face."

As the two men exchanged death glares, Mike ran over to them and tried to separate them. "It's too hot to carry on a fight right now!" he exclaimed. "Y'all shoulda chose a day last winter to start a brawl. Everybody knows winter's the best time for fightin'. Now, Larry, this here man did have the bag o' ice 'fore you got here."

Larry gave his friend a shocked look. "Whose side'r you on, boy?!"

"I ain't a' takin' no sides, Bub! I'm just sayin' it's too hot to fight! 'Sides, there's a gas station five miles down yonder road. Why can't you go there 'stead o' startin' some wild brawl in hundr'd degree weather?"

"Cause I have a right to that ice!"

"Ya do not!" interjected the man holding the ice. "I got my hands on it first!"

"That ain't no matter! My name is Larry Bubba the Sixth—do ya know what that means?"

"No, and I purt'near don't care."

"It means that anything I say goes. Know why anything I say goes?" posed Larry in a threatening manner.

"No."

"Cause my name's Larry Bubba the Sixth! Listen up next time!"

"Boys, this is ridiculous!" Mike interrupted. "Tell ye what, if I pay you double what you just got that ice fer, will ye hand it over to Bub?" he asked the man.

"Double? Well, why not? It's a hard'n makin' a buck these days."

Mike pulled out his wallet and handed the stranger a ten dollar bill. Larry took this opportunity to grab the ice from his hand, giving him one last threatening look. He then turned around and walked back to his truck, looking satisfied as ever.

Sadly, he didn't pay attention to the fact that the ice had completely melted by that time. But it would have been all good in Larry's mind. After all, he won the fight.