WILLS

08 07 04 - 03 11 11

      What do you got to say for yourself, the gun-toter says to the sitter, even-syllabled but firmly.  What do you got to say for yourself, the gun-toter says again, yelling this time, gun shaking in his palm as the firm voice and even syllables give way to verbal waver.
     I was thinking of how I've seen this in so many movies, the sitter says, and now I'm imagining how cool it would be to be that guy with the even keel and the dry humour with the barrel of a gun implanting the imprint of a giant chicken pock on his forehead, courtesy of one like you, hissing threats through his teeth with the trigger halfway to its destination.  He always waits out the dialogue, the sitter continues.  The firearm is the status symbol but the guy with the cool lines has the real power in the end.  He may even get a smile in by the time help arrives.
     The gun-toter's voice cracks at this point.  I'm not looking for the answer to a question, he wails.  I'm robbing your sorry self-righteous soon-to-be carcass.  I'm a faceless, bloodless killer, he continues with new-found vocal discipline.  And this ain't a movie and now that I've beat you to the punchline the trigger will be pulled.
     And that's when help arrives.