Angel of Mercy
There's got to be a better way. I was never big on church or religion. I'm not looking for any reward for a life well lived. Doubt I'd even qualify. I'm content to just lie down and take the long sleep. Sure ain't looking for the white light at the end of the tunnel. I just want to go out standing on my own two feet, not hooked to a bunch of tubes and monitors.
Lately I've had a strong feeling that there's an Angel of Mercy out there someplace, looking just for me.
I feel pretty good today. Might be the perfect day to let go.
You know how throughout your life, you often encounter an asshole. Some guy who is really rude, mean or just looking to cause trouble. I'm talking about the true asshole who is a real prick, day in and day out. Not the sap just having a bad day. I mean the jerk-off who is actually looking for trouble, somebody to bully or beat up on 'til he gets home and can take out his every-day anger on a wife or kids or elderly parents. A guy you know for sure in your gut, makes the world a little worse by his presence.
When you run across a guy like this, you act civilized and eat a little shit and try not to escalate the problem he is causing. You don't want to risk harm to those around you so you try to maintain your dignity and end the scene. But inside, your blood boils and you'd like nothing better than to cancel the motherfucker's ticket. If only you had a gun and you wouldn't have to spend the rest of your life in prison.
I've spent a lifetime doing the right thing. I was never free to risk it all just to teach an asshole a lesson. Now all the restraints are lifted. I have nothing left to lose, just like Bobby McGee. I feel free as a bird. While I can still walk around, I'm going to go hunting for just such an asshole. And I'm the bait.
I pull on my jeans and my Tony Llamas. I slip into my best Garth Brooks tri-colored western shirt and put on my prized fringed buckskin jacket. Thank God I live in Texas where a man can buy a little .410 derringer called "The Snake Slayer." I have her loaded with 000 shells. Each round contains four steel mini balls. She packs quite a wallop. I slip her into her custom leather holster under my jacket.
On my way out the door, I go over to my hanging wall calendar and in today's square, I write three words.
Its ten pm, time to go hunting. I grab my well worn Stetson and head on out.
Four or five miles outside town is an old roadhouse. As I pull into the gravel lot, I can see the place is packed. I find a parking space down the road a piece. I pull off the road into the dry grass far enough so's I'm not sticking out in the roadway.
I amble in and pause to check out the crowd. I've been here before, many times. There's a big U-shaped bar that probably seats 40 or so. In the front of the place there are a bunch of tables and a jukebox. There's a little dance floor over on one side. Towards the end of the bar are eight pool tables and a few more tables and chairs beyond that.
Every part of the bar is buzzing. The music is blaring. It's Saturday night and everyone is out to have some fun. Me included. I spot an empty seat at the far end of the bar. I walk down and swing a leg over the stool like it was a saddle.
"Howdy Mister. What'll it be?"
"Give me a shot of Jack and a pitcher of Lone Star."
"Coming up."
I scan the crowd. I'll stay here a while. Should be a good place to spot some big game. If not, I'll drive over to a biker bar down the road. I nurse the pitcher and throw down a couple more Jacks. I study the crowd and listen to the music.
It doesn't take too long before a real " big un" surfaces. One pool table over from me is a big guy making a lot of noise. Everybody has checked him out. People are staying clear of his table. One look and you know he's gonna cause trouble tonight.
He's about 6'4" and 240 pounds or so. He's wearing jeans, laced work boots and a wife beater tee. All the better to show off his muscles and body art. His tats tell anyone paying attention all they need to know about him. His arms are covered in ink as is his neck. Some of his tats look professionally done like the helmeted berserker with the axe and the skull with the snakes crawling out of its eyes. Most look to be prison tats; spider webs, Aryan Brotherhood symbols, double lightning bolts, etc. He has SWP, which stands for Supreme White Power, across the back of his neck. Across the Adam's apple is the standard ----- and below it, "Cut on the dotted line."
On his head he's wearing a grimy baseball cap turned backwards. When he turns to make a shot, I see the stenciled FTW across the front. From the looks of him and the overly aggressive nature of his every move, my guess is he's only a couple weeks out of Huntsville.
He's sucking down bottles of Lone Star like they were Snapples and he's walking across the panhandle at high noon. With every beer, he gets louder and more profane. The guy playing pool with him is not reacting at all. They must be buddies who came in together.
It doesn't take long. A cute waitress with a carefully balanced tray of pitchers tries to edge past him. He blocks her way. "Say Honey, you may not know it but I've been looking for a girl just like you to be my wife for tonight."
"Sorry Romeo, I'm married. Could you please step aside and let me by?"
"Now is that any way to treat a horny guy who'll make you Queen for a Night?"
"Sorry, I'm not interested. I've got a job to do so please move over."
He turns to his buddy and says, "Hey this here little dolly thinks she's too good for me."
His friend replies, "Come on man, let her go. You don't need this."
Big Boy takes a pitcher off her tray and pours it down his throat. Fully half of it washes down his chest.
"Come on bitch, cut the act. I ain't asking again."
The waitress yells to the bartender, "Billy, I'm having trouble here."
The bartender is a big guy, an easy 300 pounds. He comes around the bar and approaches Big Boy. He starts to speak, "Hey Buddy, back off."
Before he can say another word, Big Boy grabs an empty beer bottle off the edge of the pool table swings a roundhouse shot hitting the bartender across the left eyebrow. It splits and gushes blood. The bartender staggers.
Then Big Boy unleashes a barrage of fists and elbows that are ferocious in their speed and power. The bartender goes down hard and then is kicked repeatedly in the head. Nearby women scream. The crowd knocks over chairs and tables as they rush to move away from the scene. The waitress drops her tray and runs behind the bar to call 911.
Big Boy's buddy grabs him and yells, "Hey man, let's go. We got to get out of here now."
Big Boy glares at everyone as if challenging anyone who wants to step forward.
I'm still on my stool. This is the moment of truth I've been looking for.
"Hey asshole. You aren't going anywhere. You're going to wait here 'til the police arrive."
"Fuck you, old man."
I step directly into his path blocking the way to the back door. In an instant I see the beer bottle coming my way. I lean back like a boxer dodging a punch. Almost but not quite far enough. He catches me a glancing blow to the crown of my head. I'm stunned and feel the blood running into my eyes. I can barely make out Big Boy as he reaches over to the pool table and grabs a que by the tapered end and turns like he's coming up to bat.
He gets about five feet from me and pulls back to load up his swing. He doesn't see the gun in my hand 'til it's too late. I put the shell directly into his heart. It tears a substantial hole in his chest. He goes down fast onto to his back. I step closer and put the last shell right between his eyes.
No need to check his pulse. He's gone. I'm still woozy and the blood continues to flow down my forehead. I hear a commotion and look to the front door. Back lit by headlights in the parking lot, I see a figure come in. He is tall and square shouldered. I can't see any detail through the red curtain but something tells me my Angel has arrived. "Drop the gun and put your hands over your head. Do it now."
As I slowly raise my now empty gun to point it directly at the voice, I think back to the words I wrote on my calendar just a few hours ago.
"Death by cop."
Blam. Blam.
