bullets and octane... (third part of the gun in the mouth dealy)

A Story by Scott Troy

you saw the last two descriptions

The big city. A state in itself. Haven of addicts and pushers. Money, sex, drugs... Greed. My story is coming to a close. The taxi driver is mumbling something in a piecemeal dialect. I throw a few extra dollars his way. I wont need them. I stopped off at Hammond's. Picked up a small arsenal. Cleaned my shoulder up and grabbed some clean clothes. I'm wearing atleast ten pounds of death plus ammunition. This is gonna get ugly fast. I know the building. Who could miss it. The pharmaceutical tag is just a front. Big business is money laundering and drugs. Maybe some arms dealing on the side. Doesn't matter, they stepped on the wrong toes this time. Mine. I light a cigarette. Shoulder itching in clean bandages. Pain reduced to a dull ache, he gave me the rest of the bottle. The police are spinning and probably hot on me. Especially after the party i threw at the bar. I tell the driver to shut his f*****g mouth. Gotta concentrate. First level: five security guards and twelve cameras. Second level: it gets worse on the way up. I plan on using the back door. Parking garage entrance. Silencer. quiet and sneeky, just the way i like it. I gotta cloak and dagger my way in as long as i can. I hold a picture of my family, blood smears my face. damn them. They'll pay. I have the driver stop a block away. He says something of no importance and i slam the door. Crisp winter air and light rain. i check my guns. Seems death follows me. Dead stray in the gutter. ran over i dont know how many times. I feel ya partner. I take more pain killers. Throat dry and scratchy. kevlar vest hugs my frame. I feel like Bronson. Just more attractive. I laugh smoke and pitch the cigarette. Guns ready and set on my frame. I feel in my pocket for the ID card. One way access to the shooting gallery. It'll end here. I'll kill them all. I make it to the garage. I reach for my browning 9mm and fit a silencer. Time to get 007.