the odds.
But just as I was in the middle of pulling out the Mauser—just as the barrel had cleared my waistband and prepared for takeoff—just as my finger had already begun to depress the trigger and my reflexes had already trained themselves on the perfect shot to set off the overhead sprinklers—a guy in the next row over decided it was his turn to hog the insanity stage.
“Is this the return line?” he asked, his voice shaking with fear. “Somebody tell me, where’s the return line?”
He was middle aged, graying around the temples and had a slight rasp to his voice, but otherwise seemed in perfect health. The man wandered through the line, stumbling against the other penitents, his limbs flapping against flesh, trying to clear a path. The Credit Union patrons were more than happy to oblige, and they did a Red Sea for the bozo, dropping away to either side in order to avoid getting caught by what was bound to be stray shrapnel.
“Please, just tell me where to find the return line. I’m trying to be helpful here.”
As my hand casually slid the Mauser back into its waistband sheath, I followed the rest of the crowd as we backed up against the walls, allowing the guards a clear path to their target. No matter his age, he was about to reach the end of what was once a somewhat natural life span.
“I—I want to return it,” he stammered, feet tripping over each other as the spiral of guards began to close around him. “I’m here to—I mean, I missed a few payments, and I thought, rather than make you guys come out, we could—we could make a plan or something—”
But the guards, who have been trained to expressly ignore any and all wheeling and dealing on the Credit Union floor, continued their march, guns at the ready. One was already on his phone, calling for the necessary backup and reinforcement. “We found him,” he said. “He’s right down here, in the lobby. Tracer worked fine. Send down a Level Three.”
By the time I’d looked back to the soon-to-be-ex-customer, he’d already begun to disrobe, his dark navy sport coat splayed across the floor, hands working furiously at his pants, his starched-collar shirt buttons. “I didn’t want to make it difficult,” he was saying. “I know how hard it is, all these deadbeats—I know how hard it is to keep a profit margin these days—”
The lead guard approached, keeping his gun barrel aimed at the customer as a free hand reached out to provide an aura of support and understanding. “Please calm down, sir,” he said. “No one here wants to hurt you.”
But even if the guard hadn’t been lying through his ceramic dentures, even if he had indeed been sworn not to lay a finger on the clients, the man in front of him had taken the A-train way past the sanity station. “I know how much you have to pay the—the Bio-Repo men,” he choked out, “so I figured I’d help you guys—you know, maybe you could cut me a break—”
“Sir, please stop—”
“Maybe, maybe if I did it for you…” And as he whipped off his pants, nearly falling over backward as the last cotton leg pulled free, something silver and shiny in his hand glinted with the reflection of the overhead halogens. “Maybe you’d give me a break.”
Before the guns sounded, before the crowd screamed and scattered, before the blood really started flying, I got enough of a glimpse to make sense of the whole three-ring circus:
A knife, flashing through the air, turned out, in, and sliding into flesh, as the customer whipped the weapon into his own body, slicing a ragged incision just below his stomach. The blood flow was instantaneous, a thick river of it pouring to the ground below in a crimson waterfall. The guards, who had been ready to shoot first and ask no questions later, stepped back to watch the first act.
Soft grunts choked out from the man’s mouth as he dug the knife deeper into his own viscera, slicing up his stomach with little regard for skill or
But just as I was in the middle of pulling out the Mauser—just as the barrel had cleared my waistband and prepared for takeoff—just as my finger had already begun to depress the trigger and my reflexes had already trained themselves on the perfect shot to set off the overhead sprinklers—a guy in the next row over decided it was his turn to hog the insanity stage.
“Is this the return line?” he asked, his voice shaking with fear. “Somebody tell me, where’s the return line?”
He was middle aged, graying around the temples and had a slight rasp to his voice, but otherwise seemed in perfect health. The man wandered through the line, stumbling against the other penitents, his limbs flapping against flesh, trying to clear a path. The Credit Union patrons were more than happy to oblige, and they did a Red Sea for the bozo, dropping away to either side in order to avoid getting caught by what was bound to be stray shrapnel.
“Please, just tell me where to find the return line. I’m trying to be helpful here.”
As my hand casually slid the Mauser back into its waistband sheath, I followed the rest of the crowd as we backed up against the walls, allowing the guards a clear path to their target. No matter his age, he was about to reach the end of what was once a somewhat natural life span.
“I—I want to return it,” he stammered, feet tripping over each other as the spiral of guards began to close around him. “I’m here to—I mean, I missed a few payments, and I thought, rather than make you guys come out, we could—we could make a plan or something—”
But the guards, who have been trained to expressly ignore any and all wheeling and dealing on the Credit Union floor, continued their march, guns at the ready. One was already on his phone, calling for the necessary backup and reinforcement. “We found him,” he said. “He’s right down here, in the lobby. Tracer worked fine. Send down a Level Three.”
By the time I’d looked back to the soon-to-be-ex-customer, he’d already begun to disrobe, his dark navy sport coat splayed across the floor, hands working furiously at his pants, his starched-collar shirt buttons. “I didn’t want to make it difficult,” he was saying. “I know how hard it is, all these deadbeats—I know how hard it is to keep a profit margin these days—”
The lead guard approached, keeping his gun barrel aimed at the customer as a free hand reached out to provide an aura of support and understanding. “Please calm down, sir,” he said. “No one here wants to hurt you.”
But even if the guard hadn’t been lying through his ceramic dentures, even if he had indeed been sworn not to lay a finger on the clients, the man in front of him had taken the A-train way past the sanity station. “I know how much you have to pay the—the Bio-Repo men,” he choked out, “so I figured I’d help you guys—you know, maybe you could cut me a break—”
“Sir, please stop—”
“Maybe, maybe if I did it for you…” And as he whipped off his pants, nearly falling over backward as the last cotton leg pulled free, something silver and shiny in his hand glinted with the reflection of the overhead halogens. “Maybe you’d give me a break.”
Before the guns sounded, before the crowd screamed and scattered, before the blood really started flying, I got enough of a glimpse to make sense of the whole three-ring circus:
A knife, flashing through the air, turned out, in, and sliding into flesh, as the customer whipped the weapon into his own body, slicing a ragged incision just below his stomach. The blood flow was instantaneous, a thick river of it pouring to the ground below in a crimson waterfall. The guards, who had been ready to shoot first and ask no questions later, stepped back to watch the first act.
Soft grunts choked out from the man’s mouth as he dug the knife deeper into his own viscera, slicing up his stomach with little regard for skill or
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