"A hero is somebody who gets other people killed..."
Pain.
Well, that’s good. I’m not dead.
Or is it?
The smell of sweat and stale beer wafts up at me from the pillow, bringing with it the realization that at least today I seem to be in my own bed. Well, couch, actually. The broken-down ‘swallow couch’ in my office has been my bed for so long it hardly seems worth the effort of distinction. But JR would have corrected me.
Decision time. Do I open my eyes and risk the stabbing pain, like an X-acto knife to the frontal lobe, or lie here for a few more minutes hoping I pass out again?
Light.
Ow.
Shit.
Suddenly my hand closes on something in the deep crevasse of the couch. Rough, knurled surface… ah, my gun.
Moving only my thumb I carefully feel for the hammer. No sense in shooting myself in the thigh and ruining a perfectly good hangover.
The gun isn’t cocked.
“An un-cocked gun isn’t good for anything but a hammer,” JR would have said. The red-headed redneck had shot himself in the foot…twice.
Extracting my arm from the couch, I try to roll over. The still-unfamiliar weight around my midsection makes it harder than it should be. I sit up, and convince myself that the gurgling and queasiness I feel is just last night’s tequila thinking about coming back up.
Yep. This is my office, alright.
My desk.
My files.
And my dead partner looking disapprovingly at me from my overstuffed chair.
“Morning sunshine,” JR says.
To be continued…
Well, that’s good. I’m not dead.
Or is it?
The smell of sweat and stale beer wafts up at me from the pillow, bringing with it the realization that at least today I seem to be in my own bed. Well, couch, actually. The broken-down ‘swallow couch’ in my office has been my bed for so long it hardly seems worth the effort of distinction. But JR would have corrected me.
Decision time. Do I open my eyes and risk the stabbing pain, like an X-acto knife to the frontal lobe, or lie here for a few more minutes hoping I pass out again?
Light.
Ow.
Shit.
Suddenly my hand closes on something in the deep crevasse of the couch. Rough, knurled surface… ah, my gun.
Moving only my thumb I carefully feel for the hammer. No sense in shooting myself in the thigh and ruining a perfectly good hangover.
The gun isn’t cocked.
“An un-cocked gun isn’t good for anything but a hammer,” JR would have said. The red-headed redneck had shot himself in the foot…twice.
Extracting my arm from the couch, I try to roll over. The still-unfamiliar weight around my midsection makes it harder than it should be. I sit up, and convince myself that the gurgling and queasiness I feel is just last night’s tequila thinking about coming back up.
Yep. This is my office, alright.
My desk.
My files.
And my dead partner looking disapprovingly at me from my overstuffed chair.
“Morning sunshine,” JR says.
To be continued…