A new storm of epic proportions was forecast and this one, they promised,
Was
The Big One.
Batten down the feeble hatches. I met with my rent-a-thug and, after a lot of haggling, got the old revolver I wanted.
Cost
. . . a lot.
The guy telling me,
“You gotta pay for class.”
An indication of its vintage was he could procure only five bullets. I said,
“Should be sufficient.”
Got the look and the question,
“What are you killing?”
Asked in half-jocular fashion.
I said in a similar tone,
“The past.”
Back at my apartment, I dry-fired it, needed some oil. Like my system. But it had the resounding comforting click of the hammer dropping.
A bell tolling.
Told myself,
“Least now I never have to read Salman Rushdie.”
*
I was on countdown to the end. The pain had upped a level and
