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Saturday, January 29, 2011


I wrote a story awhile ago. I think you might like it. If not, just complain via email/comments/voicemail and it'll be promptly ignored. It's also copyrighted, so if you're gonna use it, give credit or link it back to me or something. Enjoy!


So I woke up with a Winchester 97. It's a beautifully made gun, pump action, good condition. In fact, I wish I could say that I was in as good of a condition as it was. But I was looking down its barrel; that was not a good condition to be in. Considering that the person whose right index finger was on the trigger mechanism did not have the highest opinion of myself, I was in a terrible condition. A bad position as well, since I was on my back and still slightly groggy from the peaceful sleep I was entrenched in. I will say “slightly” because looming death can snap someone awake or sober up the most inebriated of all drunks.

I was not drunk, because I could probably have not done the following.

I took a deep breath and said a quick, “Hi.” I allowed my obedient and faithful left hand to fall noiselessly off the bed. During the descent, the owner of the finger mentioned earlier fully launched himself into some sort of tirade about how I betrayed him or stole something of his or I forget what. I just nodded as anyone with a gun pointed at himself would do. Once I felt the handle of the bat that I keep under my bed (the sports kind, not the insect devouring kind), I tensed a little. More than likely it was because the Winchester had found it's way to near the back of my throat. Actually, that was definitely the real reason I tensed up. So I took the only chance I had and brought the bat to meet the finger's related head.

And me being me, I missed and flung the bat halfway across the room. Damn. Not the best at-bat that I've had. The best I've had was a home run I hit when I was in little league baseball.

But this was far from a home run.

Luckily enough, the finger, along with its owner, turned and got distracted by the crashes the bat caused. This gave me enough time to spit out the barrel, sit up, and take the Winchester away from the finger's owner. But not without a fight and a few gunshots, both accidental and otherwise.

After I pushed him out the front door rather roughly with the tip of my newly acquired shotgun, I “convinced” him not to return. He showed me that finger.

This time, though, it wasn't his index finger.

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