Clyde Barrow: A Short Story

Clyde always tells people his name. The rancher whose car he takes, the young boy who stumbles across their picnic, the woman who catches sight of his guns. It’s to intimidate, to establish the power he has over them. ‘You heard of the Barrow Gang? That’s me. Clyde Barrow. I rob banks. I shot those lawmen in Oklahoma and the both of ‘em in Joplin.’ He wants them to fear him because when they fear, they remember but they won’t dare tell.
He tells everyone Bonnie’s name and those syllables roll of his tongue with pride. His Bonnie Parker, his blue eyed baby. She loves the way her name sounds when he says it. It’s like the only thing that matters is her. There’s always that small, one dimpled grin pulling at his lips which isn’t often there nowadays.
‘And this here is my Bonnie Parker.’ Her name intimidates them too, and she doesn’t like that. She always treats people real nice. Maybe then the image of her as some sort of evil moll with a fondness for cigars will vanish.
They always tremble when they realize who’s company they’re in. Those bloodthirsty killers from Texas don’t give two damns about civilians, right? Didn’t they kill a man in Dallas last Christmas because of the pure old thrill? Didn’t they shoot that lawman right there in the chest for no good reason? But not one of them have ever been better treated in their lives, and that’s what they’ll remember.