Bang Bang.

Bang Bang.

Bang. You’re Dead. Shooting you down. It’s not personal. That’s how it works. Someone has a need. I have a duty. Services for hire. Money barters for death evenly in these circumstances. Contractual obligation to the client. Don’t ask questions and most importantly don’t get involved in details. No motivation required. It’s a sporting chance if you end up a target. The gun fires off a round or two and if you’re lucky my aim is bad. Not that my aim is ever wrong. Get it wrong and get fitted for a wooden box. No name anonymous with a bullet between the eyes. That’s not the case. I’m trigger happy Jane with an accuracy that would make a surgeon envious. Target acquired when the chamber releases its contents. Noises pop off. As the high speed projectile whizzes past your ears, it echoes a thin noise just outside of hearing range. This sound means it’s the last time you’ll ever hear at that frequency. And see the light of the morning sun. Even if the case were twenty paces at midnight, which it isn’t, you can kiss your sweet ass goodbye.

Bang. My baby shot me down. This is personal. Carrying the small firearm, he stands next to my leaning form. Holding onto the wall and questioning my situation while looking me up and down. This is how it goes. My absolute loyalty to the job. Need equals obligation. Hired target. Double Crossed. His moral responsibility to take me down at any cost. Client paid to eliminate my services. Termination without severance. The chase began with a few shots. Three graze past my shoulder blade to give a warning. Returning fire without a second glance behind me. As I move away from my prey it’s a whole new game, killed or be killed. The bullet flies past the left side of his head. Missing the target is a deadly mistake. Another round speeds towards me. Stop. Ten feet of metal fencing on one side. Walled in brick on the other. No where to run. Brace for impact. Successfully he’s hit me in the arm. The encouraging circumstances begin to shift to his favor. Shifting my weight along the wall, I stumble away. Twenty paces later, at half past the stroke of midnight, I’m the one kissing my sweet ass goodbye as he raises the gun toward the front of my skull.

400. Bang! This one came from an odd place. Been a while since I’ve discussed an origin. Sounds in comic book gun fire and arrogant gun play were upon my thoughts for this one. It’s a little asymmetrical don’t you think? Completely thinking of the Von Bondies on this one! I’ve been feeling a little stuck and thinking the gun to the back of the head might just help with motivation as I sit in front of the keyboard. Not blocked. Not complaining. There are ideas and words for days. Reached an impasse as they are not the words that need to come out. Does that make any sense? It will come…  Still pressing through while jumping between stories. Enjoy! m.