Shooting Babies

051411

  God put me on this earth for a reason. God put the three of us here for a reason. The same reason. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t that reason. This is just a case of wrong-place, wrong-time. But still, the skill-sets the big man bestowed on us for that endgame are useful everywhere, hold-up scenario included.  

  I don’t trust my intoxicated body enough to try and stealth my way through the aisles to take him out. Something will fall over or I’ll clumsily slip or some other unforeseen accident will get us all killed. Nope. We’re going to have to do this the quick and easy way. The messy way.

  We’re not telepathic. We can’t read each others thoughts. We’re just in tune enough to come to exactly the same conclusion when presented with any given situation. This particular situation called for a particular solution.

  I withdraw the Magnum from the back of my pants. Yeah. Didn’t see that one coming did you? I see Delta and Omega shuffle away from each other a little, creating a gap between them. Freckles looks at them with an annoyed, what the hell are you doing sort of look. The mugger notices the movement too and begins to shout about it, waving his gun around in the air with his own brand of menace.

  I level the barrel of the heavy-as-all-hell-hand-cannon at a babies face. Don’t freak – it’s only adorning a brand of diapers, no actual babies were hurt in the making of this shot. My mind processes an insane amount of variables as I judge the contents of the shelf between me and cranium of the assailant, factoring them all in to the path of my bullet. Being as ridiculously, face-meltingly high-calibre as it is, I doubt the products will provide that much of a problem. Still, better safe then sorry. I even account for my drunken wobble as I ready myself for the shoulder-popping kick.

The baby still has the dumb grin on his face as I pull the trigger and obliterate it and the feeling in my arms at once. Like an incredibly fast Mexican wave all the feminine products blast upwards and outwards as the bullet tears through them all, sending them spiralling away as it blasts towards its target. He probably doesn’t even hear the deafening boom of the shot before his consciousness disappears completely, along with his skull and all of its contents. Discontent to stop even there, the bullet punches one last hole in the wall between my friends as a crimson mist rains down upon the entire scene, attempting to catch up to the rest of the proceedings. Our wrong-place, wrong-time, wrong-victims attacker – or what’s left of him, at least – crumples to the floor, one last cymbal clash to our orchestral bloodbath.

  Freckles begins to sob.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Well would you look at that, I guess we do have a honest to gracious Mini-Series on our hands after all! This is, of course, continued from yesterday’s tale, which was a continuation of a nearly 10 month old story itself. Making up for lost time, much?

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~ by Joseph Blame on May 14, 2011.

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