Inches...

Back from a business trip to NC.  Sure glad to be back.  I hate being away from home.  And now I think I will close on a house Friday and I will be so happy to have this process behind me.  It has been very stressful.  But I hope it will be worth it.

 

So...let's get back to Deuce Maverick, Private Eye.  See what he's up to...

 

Bullets ricochet off the metal fire escape, inches from my head.  That's right.  Inches from my head.  Gunshots. 

 

Now to most people this might be devastating.  It make make you clam up and cry.  Or throw up your hands and beg for mercy.  Or run for your life.

 

Not me.  It pisses me off.  Big time.  I swivel around to face my attackers and see them, all three guys bearing down on us, shooting with their nice, black automatic pistols.  Did I mention I hate handguns?  I do.

 

There's a nice, smelly trash dumpster across from where we dropped from the fire escape.  I push Liddy toward it, forcing her to take refuge.  She's screaming something that I don't even try to take time to comprehend.  I'm sure it has something to do with not shoving her around.  Despite the fact that 3 hired guns are trying to perforate her perfect, round-

 

Dang.  How'd that get in there?  You really shouldn't be getting distracted by sex at a time like this.  I mean that could really get you killed.  You know?  I shake myself out of it and swivel the shotgun up to face my killers.  That's right, my killers.  You see, I've already consigned myself to the fact that it's over.  There is no way in hell that I will make it out of this one.  Which is a direct contradiction to what I just said about not thinking about sex cause it could get you killed.  I mean, if I know there is no way in hell I am going to make it out of this one alive, who cares if my dying thoughts are of making it with a hot, older lady?  I sure don't.

 

Either way, I ain't going without a fight.  I take dead aim with the big shotgun at the lead gunmen.  He's reloading as he runs toward me but the adrenaline is pumping so hard right now that it looks like to me he's moving in slow motion.  I can see his eyes go wide when the barrel of the shotgun covers him.  He changes direction slightly, like he's going to dive behind something but my super reactive reflexes pull the trigger before he can complete the move.  The blast covers him, throwing him backwards like a rag doll.  His body slides to the pavement and the rain pours down harder.

 

It's never easy killing someone.  Even in self defense.  And unfortunately I've had to do some of it.  Nasty business killing is.  You see, the fact is, you just ended somebody else's run at glory.  I mean ultimately that's what we're all about right?  Trying to get enough glory that our names are never forgotten.  Look at Billy the Kid.  Everybody knows him.  And why?  He was a mean, killing son of a gun.  Hitler?  Genghis Khan?  Rambo?

 

Sorry...I guess Rambo is a fictitious character and not fit for my argument.  But I think you get my drift.  We all want to be known for something and to be remembered.  Most people are happy letting their families remember them for a couple of generations before drifting off into oblivion.  But then there's others that need to be remembered for being the best golfer or the best basketball player or the best actor and actress.  And then there's the criminal element.  They want to be remembered too.

 

Too bad this guy was done.  I doubt he was anyone that anyone would care about remembering.

 

Boy, was I wrong about that one....

 

(to be continued)