The Shooter

He was always a confident man.  People and places had no effect on that.  He’s grown up here and fought there, and gotten tough all the way.  His parents tossed him out when he was 10; it was grow up or die.  He would lie low and stand up and fight whoever pushed him down.  The years gave him confidence only young men know.  He didn’t feel he owed anything to the people around him or the society that spat on him when he fell.  To him this was a dog eat dog world, and he wouldn’t hesitate to step forward to get his.  Perhaps that’s how he got in these chains, heavy, dull, and connected with thick chain-link.  He could only step a foot length at a time, half a palm width at a time.  The thick man behind him would accompany him to his death tomorrow, if it suited him to be there.  Maybe he didn’t deserve to live.  He’s thought it before, but by this society he didn’t deserve it to begin with.  A beggar orphaned child not worth the dirt on the ground.  But he showed them.  The guard could not see the cuff slipping on the end of his thumb either.  At the top of the stairs he silently freed his hand and slung his hand against the guard’s pistol, joined soon by his right hand.  They grapple on the stairs.  The murderer pried the guards fingers from the weapon and shot, shot, shot.  He wasn’t done yet.

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