Walk, Talk, and One Smoking Barrel

A sweat bead trickled down my forehead and into my eye. I still couldn't blink. My eyes were wide open staring at the chrome Browning Hi Power which was aimed directly at my face. Each breath felt like it lasted for hours. His last words rang and my ear: "You goddamn dirty sewer mongrel. How dare you harm Impala." I abhorred the way he referred to his car by its model, such southern ignorance irked me. His index finger straightened then curled to fit the trigger snugly. My sweat beads multiplied exponentially. I shut my eyes as tight as I could, but the silver snout of the pistol had a lasting impression in my brain. Another sweat bead crawled down my cheek; or another tear rather. I shut my eyes so tight I thought my ocular bones would break. I let loose another tear and just wished someone would take the gun from him. My thoughts were then interrupted by the gun shot. "The asshole actually pulled the trigger," I thought. Opening my eyes I saw Walt Komanski lying on his back clutching his bloody hand. Well I say hand, but their was more blood to clutch than there was hand. Even his pistol's freshly polished chrome was tainted a burgundy red. Keeping my dumbfounded expression, I fled the scene, trying to rid myself of flashbacks from Vietnam. The blood stayed in my thoughts from morning, noon, night, to insomnia. Ahhh, when will my sleepless cycle end? But more importantly how do these coincidences keep on happening?