Beautiful Grey Day Turned to Shit.
I walked out of my house to be greeted with grey skies and a light rain. As the rain soaked my clothes drop by drop, my bloody arm felt less pain now that I could finally relax in the peaceful gloomy day. I turned for a moment to see the masked men I had cut down in a jagged line filling my hallway. I smirked and turned back around. Ah! Damn arm. The pain came back now. I had lost quite a bit of blood back there. I sat down on the concrete steps leading up to my house. My ass starts getting cold from the water soaking through my jeans. From inside my vest I pull out my pack of smokes. I open it and manage to get one in my mouth. Damn arm. That last guy really got me. I can barely use my left arm without it shooting in pain, so I light my smoke with one hand, which is hard to do in this rain. Damn arm.
I’m only halfway done with my smoke when 5 more cars pull up. The first five that came before them an hour ago just drove up on my yard like inconsiderate assholes. These guys park on the street. Ha! Not as intimidating if you have to park and walk farther. I was really hoping I could finish my smoke. The guy who I assume was their leader was walking in front of his other goons. This guy was fat with black hair that he slicked back. The dude’s sporting a flashy polo that might have been at least 20 years old with light brown khakis. His goons are dressed just like the ones laying on the floor in my house: suits, ties, and masks. What a cliché. The fat man walks up to the sidewalk and stops. His goons follow in a wedge like formation but then line up on the sidewalk. The fat man looks into the house and turns red. He then looks at me and yells, “How the hell are you not dead!?”
I stare back at him and keep smoking.
“You’re a f*****g dead man! You hear me? Dead!”
I still don’t reply.
“You’re going to pay for what you did!”
The fat man just keeps rambling on and on. I quit listening and focus on my smoke. This guy brought about 20 guys. That’s seems a bit much if you ask me. That just doesn’t seem fair. The fat man finally notices now that I wasn’t listening anymore and starts to approach me, so I take my .45 out of my vest and put a slug in his arm. I could’ve killed him but I maybe I can show him the irony of things. Ha! Eye for an eye, or more like arm for an arm. Ouch! Damn arm. I don’t think he finds it as funny as I do.
The fat man, writhing in pain, yells out, “Get him! I want him alive!”
The goons circle around me. I stand up and take one more drag from my smoke. One of them rushes me so I quickly throw my smoke at his eye. He stumbles towards me so I clock him with my bad arm and make his body thud hard against the concrete. He lay there holding his eye. I put my boot on his thoat, point my gun at his head, and stare at the fat man. “What the hell’s the matter a with ya!?” the fat man exclaims.
“My arm hurts,” I reply.
“Not you… ah what are you waiting for!? GET HIM!”
In an instant the goons all rush me at once. I put a bullet into the dude on the ground and two more into two of the goons rushing me. That’s all I could squeeze off before they all reach me. I probably could stand a chance if I was back in the hallway. Wouldn’t hurt either if both my arms worked. Damn arm.
To be continued.