The Bounty Hunter in My Basement
When my landlord let a drunk and drifting bounty hunter crash at our home, I wanted him out immediately…but what I really wanted was to learn everything he knew.
Illustrations by Dakota McFadzean
I came home from work reeking of coffee grounds. I worked at a coffee-roasting company. It had a café up front, where nice-looking young people served nice-looking customers. In the warehouse in back, I ground coffee beans into containers, everything from big plastic drums to shiny pouches that fit in the palm of your hand.
The dust flew everywhere and I stank of it. It soaked into my clothes. It filled my nostrils. But it was good coffee and I drank cup after cup at work, for free.
I came home late and wanted a beer and a shower. No one was home in the three-bedroom upstairs flat. I hadn’t heard from my girlfriend. I went into the kitchen in the back and opened the refrigerator, wondering what I would find inside.
Someone knocked on the back door that led to the back staircase. I jumped. No one ever knocked on the door and it was never locked.
I opened the door. A huge beast of a man stood on the other side — well over six feet tall, huge barrel chest, lo…