HALF COCKED
G.A. Scheinoha
“I don’t want blood on our understanding.” Which didn’t explain why she’d felt it necessary to bring along what appeared to be a large frame, very powerful pistol. And now aimed it down a blade sight sight big as her nose at me. I’m no expert with guns but just knew I couldn’t possibly have made her THAT angry. She must be mistaking me for some other s.o.b.
About then I got the sudden urge to rush her. True, I could see the long bluish barrel, the hefty maw at the end, black as a cave in the side of our future, yawning, terrifying, even the five other bullets in the cylinder, their points glinting with the dead on, never wavering stare of a serpent. Yet none of it seemed especially real.
BLAM! the thing went off. I think something exploded inside my head as well. What’re you, nuts? “Why, you b--” I screamed, the words caught in my throat as blood oozed between my clenched fingers over my left shoulder where the slug had torn through the sleeve, scoured out a chunk of meat the size of a grapefruit. At least I thought so.
“Aww, quit your bellyachin’,” she cooed. “It’s only a scratch.” She thumbed back the heavy hammer, pulled the muzzle up from the haphazardly pointed general direction of my groin. . . to where it
could inflict a second belly button. “Besides, you’re gonna hurt worse than that before we’re through.”
