Marko could feel the warm flesh of his temple being pressed cold by the icy steel barrel of the 357 magnum, as a myriad of thoughts flashed through his mind.
The drama hanging over his head that seemed like the end of the world yesterday, was of little matter now. It had all started last weekend after Clay’s wedding. All day Marko had carefully protected the white monkey suit they forced him into wearing. The wedding was over and he was home free, or so he thought.
He carried out his usherly duties by propping open the church doors and now stood as if a guard in front of Buckingham Palace. There was no way for him to know the jealous psychotic bitch that he threw into the harbor a few weeks ago was now waiting in the dark shadows of the building. The wire clenched in her hand was as cold as her heart and attached to a five gallon pale of salt water laced with the greasy excrement of the endless ship traffic in the harbor.
Marge’s pulse pounded with the power of revenge as her athletic body hoisted the 40 pounds of sea sludge with ease. Marko had humiliated her in front of everyone and now it was his turn. By the time Marko sensed the on coming danger she was running full speed straight at him and there was no escape.
Ever since that day Marko had been consumed by the $250.00 bill for the tuxedo….. until now.
When your head is against the business end of a Smith and Wesson, it suddenly makes clear the foolish habit of stressing out over the day-to-day problems life sends us.
No longer having the luxury of thinking, it was time for Ron to live up to the bad ass image he had alway portrayed. The machete wheeling outlaw was about to cut up his best friend and had forgotten one of the first rules of war. When given no options, even the weakest of cowards fights back. As the patch holder dispensed the blade and lunged forward Ron twisted in his chair unleashing a round house upper cut charged with entire force of his strength, impacting the balls of the little outlaw like a missile and lifting his road worn boots from the floor.
The outlaw fell forward slamming the razor sharp knife to the table. It severed the end of Dan’s pinky finger at the first knuckle, shooting it across the room.
Jerking to life, the outlaw in the corner was caught off guard. Fumbling to get his feet off the table and hands on the shot gun sent him and the rustic wooden chair over backward.
The Mexican moved the revolver from Marko’s head toward the table of strangers where all the action was. Marko would not let the opportunity slip by. He clamped onto the wrist of the gun hand, stood, and turned using his hip in a fulcrum toward the side of his foe. The enormous weight of the fat Mexican kept his feet planted solidly and when his elbow met Marko’s muscular shoulder it snapped like an accountants pencil. As Marko heard the gun hit the floor he ducked under the arm in one smooth continuous motion twisting the broken limb behind the outlaw’s back, then grabbed a handfull of hair for control and pulled the opponent close for a human shield. It all happened so fast it wasn’t until the fat Mexican’s head snapped back that he let out a cry of sheer pain from the depth of his soul.
The club officers were still frozen from surprise when air suddenly filled with splinters of oak and chips of stucco from the walls as a pass of full-auto, gun fire panned the room just above all their heads.
The room became silent except for the eerie sound of debris raining to the plank floor.
An enraged voice came from the top of the stairs “throw your shit into the middle of the room or the next pass will be two feet lower…………..
Will the Cantina run red with blood? Tune in next time to find out.
FTW,
