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September 26, 2005

Volume 6, Issue 26

There I was, surrounded. NO PLACE TO GO.

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I picked up my informant, Vito, and pulled back into traffic. Within a few blocks, I noticed the black Caddy following us, and made a quick left. They stayed right on our tail. I ducked and weaved through traffic, making random turns, to no avail, until I saw our path ahead blocked by another ominous black Caddy. I cut into an alleyway, stopped, and reached for the door. "Come on, we've got to run for it!" I yelled, just as I hear the 'pop' of the silenced pistol behind me. The last words I heard were, "Whaddaya mean 'we', copper?"

Posted by: hnumpah at September 26, 2005 7:18 AM · Permalink

The year I turned four, the Whittaker family reunion took place at Aunt Connie’s little house. There, in the living room, a sea of grown-up legs, all butts and bellys, hemmed me in. I dared not move.

“Mommy!” I called out. “Where’s the baf…?”

“Not now, honey,” she sang from somewhere nearby. “Mommy’s talking to Aunt Fran.”

“Daddy!” I cried. “Where’s the…?”

“I’m busy, Cindy,” boomed Daddy from further away.

Trapped. There was no place to go. So I went right there. Right where I stood.

I wonder if Aunt Connie ever got that stain off of her expensive carpeting.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at September 26, 2005 8:19 AM · Permalink

"Well, you know what I did then," said the skinny little blonde sitting across from me, in a voice so high and babyish I wanted to strangle her on the spot.

"Like, what?" said the brunette next to her.

"I told him no waaaaay."

Dead. She should be dead. I could fix that.

Twittering voices all around me were agreeing with her.

"I would say that."

"Me toooooo."

"Totally. What a jerk."

I had no weapons. I contemplated breaking my pint glass and using it as a shiv.

Then, from behind, a deeper voice. "Here, have some more beer."

Salvation.

Posted by: cranky-d at September 26, 2005 2:57 PM · Permalink

Just the way I like it. No place to go, and nothing to do but kill, and kill, and kill some more and hope to hell it's enough.

There's a big, meaty SOB coming at me. I break his arm in three places, point what's left at his buddies, and squeeze his fat fingers around the trigger. It's a .22, a wimp's gun, but at this range it doesn't matter. I pull him in front of me as a shield. His belly starts exploding. My old man's heart wants to stop. I laugh at it.

Bring it on, ya pansies.

Posted by: Jeff R. at September 26, 2005 3:36 PM · Permalink