Flash Fiction

Here's the flash fiction entry. I had a lot of fun, and was inspired by the recent movie F1.

Here's the story. No editing--all original typos and grammatical mistakes remain!

The four prompts that you had to mention in your story were:

Character: an athlete

Action: parking

Item: Tabasco sauce

Phrase: You better watch out

Title: Lessons learned. OR: Don't humiliate a man in front of his mama.

I lost a bet. I must've lost more than that--I must've lost my mind. Who does Tabasco sauce shots? This guy. This guy right here, apparently. Ego gets me again. Arrogance has its price and damned I'm about to pay in full.

"Let's make a bet" he said. I reached into my pocket. "No, put your money away. Money, I have. No, I want embarrassment."

Oh god. I hope he didn't mean strip poker. I had limits. Especially in the social media age.

"You embarrassed me. Publicly, when you trashed the craftsmanship of the work I did on your car, Mr. Big Shot Formula One star. In front of all my colleagues. In front of my mama, who came all the way from Sicily with her travel group just to show me off. So this, my friend, is gonna hurt you.

"Fine. Let's get this over with," I said. What's the game? Texas hold 'em? Pinochle?

Nope. We're playing 21/Blackjack. "Boys, get the cameras ready. Each hand you lose, you take a shot." This didn't bother me. I can hold my liquor and better than most. Before I could tell him as much, he held up his hand. "...A shot...of Tabasco sauce." A groan went up from the crowd of mechanics watching. Now, I famously have a tetchy stomach, never eating more than plain rice and butter before a race, which he damned well knew, so this was not good. Not good at all. 

Putting on a brave face, I said "Let the games begin." I won the first couple hands. The lost once, then won. But then, something happened. To this day, I don't know if he was cheating or if the universe was conspiring against me in punishment. But I lost the next six hands. Six shots of Tabasco, delivered from a Costco-sized bottle.

The cameras were rolling. I must've looked like Christmas gone wrong. Red and Green Red and Green. Green 'cause I wanted to vomit. Red because I was sweating so profusely. 

My stomach. Man, I don't want to even talk about it, except to say bubble guts is real, y'all.

At that sixth loss, I slammed my hand against the table. "Uncle. I'm done. You win."

"Say it," he said. I stared. "Or else."

"Ronaldo Giancomo is the greatest automobile craftsman ever, and I would be nothing, nothing without him. I swear I will never disrespect you again, especially in front of your family." The last part was said like a vow. Which it was. I will keep my ego and mouth in check from here on out. 

He nodded, nearly satisfied. There was more punishment in store though, I could tell.

"Okay, now you go around that track, 135mph, and then do a 360 spin and parallel park."

Okay that was just cruel. But I deserved it. I swallowed back the Tabasco-laden bile that was rising  and somehow made my way over to the car. There was no way that sauce was going to stay in place in that turn. Which, given the smile on Ronaldo's face, he knew as well. They were going to have to hose me, the car, and the whole damned track down by the time I was done.

He slammed his meaty hand on the front of the car and laughed, gold tooth shining. "You better watch out."

End.