In his dream....
he could feel it, just hanging out there in the Cosmos like a cloud of acrid gas waiting to burn him through closed eyelids.
Again. It was happenning again.
This time not because he he didn't act...or couldn't...just that it would have been worse than losing everything again.
He knew she was with someone else.
He knew.
He felt it as he was dozing and losing alertness, the fear snapped him-to an hour or so after he sat down.
He didn't know he had gone out.
As he woke with a stifled start, the sweat made the butt of the gun feel cold against the small of his back.
He FUCKED up.
He nodded-off with the gun pinned between his back and the couch.
He stifled the panicked breathing.
His heart threatened to crack his rib cage with its terror.
He stifled his moves, slowly reached behind and drew his piece so as to not make any sound.
He clicked-off the safety and drew back the hammer to the ready position while the sound was still muffled by the cushions.
The gun went to the end table-his right hand still on it it and the left went to his glass.
His ears were wide open.
He thought he heard something.
Then nothing,
Nothing.
Nothing.
Then a creak.
Rusted metal stretching.
What an idiot, this so called pro short-cut across the lawn, crunching old lawn-clippings instead of creeping up the paved, silent walkway.
Smart, not oiling the springs on the screen door.
That sound that meant good things as a kid.
People coming home.
Summer on the porch.
Tonight it meant he was going to have to shoot someone.
Or three.
They watched him fall asleep.
They could have taken him before.
They waited.
Wanted surprise.
Or fear.
He stifled a vicious, nasal sneer by polishing off his whiskey-and smiled.
They were afraid.....
...and thought they got the drop.
He knew there'd be 3 of them .
One one in the front door.
One in the back door.
One escape driver.
He drew a pillow over the gun and feigned closed eyes.
...let the front door guy get close in the dark, cap his ass through the pillow, go after the back door man...barrel around the side-yard and shoot the driver before he knows it all went South.
...then what?
Drop the bodies off at the house to be a dick...or ditch them?
It would be half-a-day before anyone figured out he won this round.....maybe more.
Make 'em guess.
Leave 'em where they dropped.
Make Jimmy send someone else shitting his pants coming to check ...around...what, noon?
Poor bastard. He'd have to worry about there being cops there and it getting traced-back to Jimmy-or risk it being a trap and getting his brains blown out.
It'll be so quiet....maybe someone will think he turned them or bribed them.
Sometimes it was too easy.
They fell for it.
Jameson was about six feet away and half his face torn off by the .45 before he connected the smoke and flying feathers with the fact that he was lying fatally wounded on his mark's floor....his partner didn't hear the muffled sound of him hitting the floor and trying to scream with no face.
Markson thought he was silent coming in the back, but the pillow-cum silencer was mere inches from his face when the copper-jacket hollow-point .45 ACP round splattered his brains on the wall by the back door.
It was a mad sprint through wet grass.
On tip-toe to not make noise.
The driver was busy watching the front door.
He knew no neighbors would be awake to hear the noise, so to be a dick, he dropped the pillow
as he approached the Lincoln sitting at the end of the driveway
Smith revelled in his power.
His last few sprinting footsteps in the roadside gravel alerted the driver, he started to turn.
Smith -in a stage whisper-said, "Hey!"... the driver tried to turn all the way 'round just in time to take one round in the forehead.
His head exploded like a rotting watermelon all over the inside of the car.
Smith grinned.
He realized he had an hour or two of freedom before the next pile of bullshit.
He wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand and grinned an evil skeleton death-mask to his reflection in the rear passenger window.
He didn't even get any blood on him.
He went inside pounded a beer and gulped some Jack.
He didn't start sweating 'til he remembered his dream.
She was with someone else.
FUCK!
he could feel it, just hanging out there in the Cosmos like a cloud of acrid gas waiting to burn him through closed eyelids.
Again. It was happenning again.
This time not because he he didn't act...or couldn't...just that it would have been worse than losing everything again.
He knew she was with someone else.
He knew.
He felt it as he was dozing and losing alertness, the fear snapped him-to an hour or so after he sat down.
He didn't know he had gone out.
As he woke with a stifled start, the sweat made the butt of the gun feel cold against the small of his back.
He FUCKED up.
He nodded-off with the gun pinned between his back and the couch.
He stifled the panicked breathing.
His heart threatened to crack his rib cage with its terror.
He stifled his moves, slowly reached behind and drew his piece so as to not make any sound.
He clicked-off the safety and drew back the hammer to the ready position while the sound was still muffled by the cushions.
The gun went to the end table-his right hand still on it it and the left went to his glass.
His ears were wide open.
He thought he heard something.
Then nothing,
Nothing.
Nothing.
Then a creak.
Rusted metal stretching.
What an idiot, this so called pro short-cut across the lawn, crunching old lawn-clippings instead of creeping up the paved, silent walkway.
Smart, not oiling the springs on the screen door.
That sound that meant good things as a kid.
People coming home.
Summer on the porch.
Tonight it meant he was going to have to shoot someone.
Or three.
They watched him fall asleep.
They could have taken him before.
They waited.
Wanted surprise.
Or fear.
He stifled a vicious, nasal sneer by polishing off his whiskey-and smiled.
They were afraid.....
...and thought they got the drop.
He knew there'd be 3 of them .
One one in the front door.
One in the back door.
One escape driver.
He drew a pillow over the gun and feigned closed eyes.
...let the front door guy get close in the dark, cap his ass through the pillow, go after the back door man...barrel around the side-yard and shoot the driver before he knows it all went South.
...then what?
Drop the bodies off at the house to be a dick...or ditch them?
It would be half-a-day before anyone figured out he won this round.....maybe more.
Make 'em guess.
Leave 'em where they dropped.
Make Jimmy send someone else shitting his pants coming to check ...around...what, noon?
Poor bastard. He'd have to worry about there being cops there and it getting traced-back to Jimmy-or risk it being a trap and getting his brains blown out.
It'll be so quiet....maybe someone will think he turned them or bribed them.
Sometimes it was too easy.
They fell for it.
Jameson was about six feet away and half his face torn off by the .45 before he connected the smoke and flying feathers with the fact that he was lying fatally wounded on his mark's floor....his partner didn't hear the muffled sound of him hitting the floor and trying to scream with no face.
Markson thought he was silent coming in the back, but the pillow-cum silencer was mere inches from his face when the copper-jacket hollow-point .45 ACP round splattered his brains on the wall by the back door.
It was a mad sprint through wet grass.
On tip-toe to not make noise.
The driver was busy watching the front door.
He knew no neighbors would be awake to hear the noise, so to be a dick, he dropped the pillow
as he approached the Lincoln sitting at the end of the driveway
Smith revelled in his power.
His last few sprinting footsteps in the roadside gravel alerted the driver, he started to turn.
Smith -in a stage whisper-said, "Hey!"... the driver tried to turn all the way 'round just in time to take one round in the forehead.
His head exploded like a rotting watermelon all over the inside of the car.
Smith grinned.
He realized he had an hour or two of freedom before the next pile of bullshit.
He wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand and grinned an evil skeleton death-mask to his reflection in the rear passenger window.
He didn't even get any blood on him.
He went inside pounded a beer and gulped some Jack.
He didn't start sweating 'til he remembered his dream.
She was with someone else.
FUCK!
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