Hell of a thing, killin’ a man.

I went out with the gunslingers last night, an act of lunacy I’d sworn never to repeat. I guess you’d call it a peacekeeping mission; but instead of an MK47, I was armed with moxy and a clean pair of shorts (to be said like Ace Ventura).

We’ve settled into a quiet unease of late, the sun threatening to set on our two-bit Western. I see the squint of their Clint … hands suspended over holsters. They sniff the air and know, my loyalty lies else(where). This town aint big enough for the trio of us.

Hence drinks, in mask of my mutiny. We sat around the table: Married Guy (a tale for another day), Gal Gunslinger, Guy Gunslinger and me. Chump. I cracked funnies, they laughed. But nothing reached the eyes. A poker game, with me as the dogeared Joker.

There would be no green fairies tonight, my foes.

It’s funny how much can change when nothing external alters. Like Justin once wanted Britney, they’d once wanted me. Those fuckers had pursued me like a granny pursues the elastic of her shorts as they drop beyond her knees (event horizon). Actually. Guy Gun chased, while Gal Gun looked upon me like Paul upon yechy Yoko (yo).

He won out, and she began to shine with the same maniacal glow (didn’t have much choice, see). They showed me theirs, I showed them my peppy and friendship rainbows arced the sky. Gal Gun swore my secrets went into The Vault, never to be shared with another living soul; all-the-while regaling me with the intimate details of Married Guy’s divorce.

Whaddayaknow, that girl was soon leaking like Paltrow in an Oscar speech, and vault items began appearing in the Gunslinger Gazette. Meanwhile, Guy Gun slowly turned from soft-spoken geek to an orgy-owning Ozzy with poison whippet-tail.

Like a former-CIA agent who’d made a living off the frailty of the human psyche, I had of course known this day would come. From the moment I’d clocked these Charlies, jaunting like a couple of prize fighters who’d never taken a dive (fists raised – jab, uppercut, jab).

“We are Rocky. You, Lundgren waiting to happen.”

And as I made my way home, walking like Frankenstein with a wedgie, I knew they’d caught it. Oh yeah baby. While I was bent over, takin’ it up the tailpipe, they caught the Whiff on the Wind. I wasn’t with them. And if I wasn’t with ’em …

I then spent ten minutes searching for my keys, only to realize they were in my left hand.

Published by the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

36 thoughts on “Hell of a thing, killin’ a man.

  1. This sounds very reminiscent of every ‘outside of work’ encounter with my old office’s Employee Relations team. They changed their name from ‘Human’ to ‘Employee’, and I’m certain that this is because they don’t regard the employees as human, so the name was inappropriate… Man I do NOT miss my job!

  2. Awesome! Love the rich tapestry of your writing. Thanks for the LIKE today! (coopersview.wordpress.com)

  3. Thank the lord that you made your blog…you make me end my day nicely (since I go blog-trotting at night).
    event horizon…I think I died right there.

  4. Wot a tale! It was like “Once Upon A Time in the West”! Keys in your left hand eh? I gather you are right-handed. Which means you kept your right hand free for armed combat. No tale had a greater impact than that last quiet sentence.

  5. … a truly inspirational piece. I will reflect on these words and those from earlier posts when I next take pen to paper… (or digets to keys…). Thank you for your unique wisdom.

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