I have the scumbag gene

When I was a child, my parents took me to a specialist to test my blood for a condition known as Antisocial Personality Disorder, or the "Scumbag Gene". It was a newfangled thing at the time, and didn't have a whole lot of science behind it, but the doctor assured them that it was a simple procedure and would be a good idea in case I turned out to be a "bad kid." When the results came back, I remember my dad's face turning bright red with anger. He didn't show it to my mother, but he did show it to me. It was official; I had the scumbag gene. At first, it all seemed like new age mumbo jumbo to me. The test didn't seem any different from the cut-rate palm reading booths you see at carnivals. But as I got older, I realized that the test was dead on. I had always been a scumbag. Even as a kid, I was a thief. All the time, my parents would have front door sales, where they would have to apologize for me because I had walked off with something of theirs. It was a compulsion for me, and something I couldn't break the habit of for a long time. As an adult, the stealing was easier than ever. I had a good job at a carwash, where I could take whatever I wanted from people's cars. Sometimes I'd even break in and steal whatever I could carry. Nobody ever caught on because I was good at it, and I was a scumbag. But then one day, a strange customer came in. He was an older guy, with long white hair and a leather duster coat. He reminded me a lot of a cowboy, just without a hat or boots. The guy was a regular, and tipped always. He knew my name, and was always kind. But he was a bit strange. I could tell because I was strange too. He was a fellow scumbag, just like me. "Hop in the passenger seat," he told me, one day after I had given him his change. "I got a job for you." The guy had a pickup truck, with an open cab in the bed. There was a dirt bike in there, and a duffle bag full of tools. He drove me out into the desert, where there were sand dunes and big rocks. It reminded me of a place where they would often film westerns. That's when it clicked to me that he looked like a cowboy. We pulled up to a large boulder, and parked. There were a bunch of rocks around, plus a dead tree. All and all, it wasn't very pretty. "I've been watching you," the cowboy said, as we stepped out of the cab. "I can tell you're one of us." "One of who?" "One of us." He smiled, as he walked towards the boulder. "I saw that look in your eye the first time you washed my truck. I knew you were a kindred spirit." I followed him to the boulder and he reached behind it, pulling out a small shovel. "I want you to dig here." "Why?" "Because there's a briefcase here, and I need you to get it for me." "Why can't you get it?" "I'm not allowed." "Who says you're not allowed?" "I'm not allowed," he repeated. "Now are you going to dig or not? I'll pay you two grand." I had been making minimum wage at the carwash, so two grand was a fortune to me. It was enough to live off of for two months. I got to work, and started digging. The dirt was hard and dry, and the hole got nowhere fast. After about an hour, the hole was about two feet deep. The cowboy watched me, as he sat beneath the dead tree. He tipped his duster coat up, and I could see that he had a large knife on his belt. Strapped to his waist was a holster, with a big pistol. The guy was serious, and although I was a scumbag, I don't think I would have stood a chance against him. After about an hour, I finally hit something hard. I cleared the dirt away, and saw that it was a briefcase. It was made of plastic, with a rusted lock on the front to keep it closed. I pulled on the lock, but it wouldn't give. It had been buried for a while, and I figured the lock would probably break if I tugged a little harder. "Hang on a minute," the cowboy said. "That's not yours." I stopped tugging on the lock, and stood up. The cowboy walked up to me, and lifted his duster coat up. He rested his hand on his gun. He didn't unholster it, but I could tell he was ready to at a moment's notice. I continued to tug on the lock, harder and harder, and it finally broke. The cowboy didn't shoot me, although he looked angry. "If you're gonna be a scumbag," he said, "then be a good one." I opened up the briefcase. I didn't really care what was inside. I was a scumbag, but I wasn't stupid. My main concern was getting the two grand, and then getting away from this weird cowboy as quickly as possible. But when I looked inside the briefcase, I got very interested, very quickly. The briefcase was full of stacks and stacks of twenties. It was so full, in fact, that the stacks were having a hard time fitting inside. I stared at the money, dumbfounded, as the cowboy took it from me. He turned around, and walked back towards the truck, as I followed him. "You said you'd pay me two grand," I told him. "I did." The cowboy reached behind the boulder, and pulled out a small stack of twenties. He handed it to me. It was indeed two grand, and I figured that that was more than enough to get out of there. I didn't want any part in this man's dealings, and I figured that I'd already been paid enough. But something was wrong. I looked at the money in my hands, and all I thought about was how small it was. The briefcase was almost as big as a coffin, and it was stuffed with twenties. I figured that it would be a conservative guess to say that there was one hundred grand in there, but I was only getting two? That didn't sit right with me. "You said you needed my help," I told the cowboy. "I think I deserve a bigger cut." "I paid you what I owed you." "I want a bigger cut." The cowboy turned around, as he opened the door to the cab. I could see his gun, resting on his belt. He didn't draw it, but he looked like he was willing to use it. He stepped closer to me, and put his face in mine. I could smell his breath. It smelled of cheap tobacco. "I'm giving you the car keys," he said. "It's a ten grand truck. If you don't walk away right now, I'll shoot you in the head and bury you in the hole you dug for me." I took the keys, and hopped in the cab. The cowboy hopped in the passenger side, and showed me the way back to town. He didn't say a word the whole time. He didn't look at me, and he didn't smile. He just kept his eyes forward, and his hand on his gun. I dropped him off at the carwash, and he walked inside. He didn't say a word to me as he left, and just walked away. That night, I couldn't sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about that money. I couldn't believe that I had been so stupid, and that I had let him take advantage of me. I had been a scumbag my whole life, and I had let this guy outscumbag me. I was furious, and I couldn't sleep. As I lay in bed, I thought of all the ways I could get my revenge. I could call the police on him, but I figured they wouldn't care. I was a carwash attendant, and he was just a customer. I could try to break into his house and get the money, but he seemed too well armed. I could confront him, but I knew that I'd be outgunned. Finally, I gave up. I figured that I'd never see that money. I was on the verge of sleep, when I heard a knock at the door. I got up to answer it, groggily, when I saw that it was the cowboy. "How did you get in my building?" I asked him, as I blocked the doorway with my body. "I walked in the front door," he told me. "You see, you don't really live here." "What do you mean?" "You're a scumbag. You don't really live anywhere." There was something about his words, that cut me deep. I didn't know what he meant, but it sounded true. I let him in my apartment, and he sat down in a chair. "I'm here to teach you a lesson," he said. "What do you think that lesson is?" "I don't know." "It's to always get what's yours." He reached into his duster coat, as I backed away from him. I thought he was about to pull out his gun, but when his hand came out it was holding a small explosive. It was one of those small bricks of C-4, with a remote detonator attached to it. "Don't move," he said. He walked into my kitchen, and opened up the fridge. He placed the C-4 at

I have the scumbag gene

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