Bar Talk

Frank hadn't been in this part of town before. Was lookin' for an address someone gave him. S'posed to be a guy with Ironhead parts for sale. Havin' trouble findin' it.    
   
So he parked in a warehouse area. He was about to open his trunk to get a map when he heard a voice say "You bein' robbed". Turned to see a teenager about three feet from him ("guess my hearing's startin' to go", he thought).    
   
Saw the kid's buddy hovering five feet back on a bicycle. Homegrown holdup team, huh?    
   
Frank right foot stepped in and left hand palmed the barrel ("big 'ol wheel gun" he's thinkin') while treatin' the idjit to a right handed left templed Konga Ken.  Sucker went down like a sack of sand.    
   
[Vas ist dis "Konga Ken"?    
Ist da smacken mitt da fist bottem.    
Ist dis hurtin'?    
WHAM!    
Ooohh, ja- dist ist hurtin'. Danke.]    
   
During the drop he was relieved of his firearm by an upward clockwise twist that broke the malcontents index finger against the inside of the trigger guard (damn near tore it clean off).    
   
The Bad Guy on the asphalt rolled onto his back and started saying rude things to his uncooperative victim.    
   
That got him a size 12 foot stomp onto his groin.      
   
As luck would have it his body reacted by quickly folding up which brought his nose directly into Frank's knee (since he was movin' fast it got kinda mashed in).    
   
Back down he went. Now he's groanin' and Frank, seein' he's in pain, steps alongside his head to steel toe tap his other temple.    
   
This gives him the relief of unconsciousness.    
   
But it looks like he's havin' trouble breathing through the broken cartilage.    
   
Still holding the revolver by the barrel ("what'd this guy do, burgle Roy Rogers for his piece?") he cross steps to the head top area of Mr. Criminal. Then he squats down, right hand grabs a handful of hair and windshield wiper wacks some teeth clear of the pie hole.    
   
There, now he's moanin' and wheezin' and can whistle Dixie unimpeded.    
   
Lookin' away, Frank can see the accomplice pukin' and pedalin' fast and far from the fracus.      
   
Frank finishes turnin' the key in the trunk lock ("Hey- any bullets in this thing- yeah, six .45 Long Colts. This fella is lucky is lucky I came long. He might have accidentally hurt himself with it").    
   
He pockets the cartridges, tosses the cannon into the trunk (in the interest of publc safety) and decides to pass on the map.    
   
Next he thinks "Probably just bar talk about the parts. Now what? Screw it. Gonna go home and write some sad sappy poetry to post on my blog".    
      
And that's just what he did.