When I first met Melinda and Marcus, the famous sister and brother
bounty-hunting duo, I did not want to kill my wife, I was just hungry.
I was standing in line for the chili dog stand two blocks from the office. It was a chokingly humid August afternoon and the line was long, longer than usual. As a lone drop of sweat slowly rolled down the back of my neck, I weighed how much I wanted a chili dog against how much I wanted to be back inside the sharp air-conditioned cool of the cubicle that was my prison forty hours a week. I craned my neck to see up to the front of the line. An overweight Mexican was arguing with the chili dog vendor in broken Inglés. I looked at my watch, which seemed to have melted onto the skin of my wrist. 12:59. Almost, almost 1:00. I'd promised myself that at 1:00 I would finish working on my latest project, an instruction manual for a do-it-yourself swing set. Slide Peg C into Slot B, that kind of thing.
As I was about to turn around and head back, three things happened in very quick succession, one might say, well, simultaneously. First, a thick, angry gray line of storm clouds swallowed up the sun, casting the unsuspecting sidewalk in sudden, ominous darkness. Second, a loud crash of thunder boomed, momentarily shocking and disorienting me. Thirdly, a heavy hand landed on my shoulder.
I was standing in line for the chili dog stand two blocks from the office. It was a chokingly humid August afternoon and the line was long, longer than usual. As a lone drop of sweat slowly rolled down the back of my neck, I weighed how much I wanted a chili dog against how much I wanted to be back inside the sharp air-conditioned cool of the cubicle that was my prison forty hours a week. I craned my neck to see up to the front of the line. An overweight Mexican was arguing with the chili dog vendor in broken Inglés. I looked at my watch, which seemed to have melted onto the skin of my wrist. 12:59. Almost, almost 1:00. I'd promised myself that at 1:00 I would finish working on my latest project, an instruction manual for a do-it-yourself swing set. Slide Peg C into Slot B, that kind of thing.
As I was about to turn around and head back, three things happened in very quick succession, one might say, well, simultaneously. First, a thick, angry gray line of storm clouds swallowed up the sun, casting the unsuspecting sidewalk in sudden, ominous darkness. Second, a loud crash of thunder boomed, momentarily shocking and disorienting me. Thirdly, a heavy hand landed on my shoulder.
Although I'm ashamed to say it, I have to admit that the combination of these three things made me give a little scream as I jump-spun around.
"Good afternoon, friend," a deep, smooth voice intoned pleasantly.
The speaker was a tall, thin man wearing a red silk shirt, loose-fitting khakis, flip-flops, a cowboy hat, and a bandolier, the kind you usually see henchmen wearing in old Westerns. His features were indiscernible under the cowboy hat except for his smile, which was a wide slice across his face, stretching his skin taut. Next to him, coming up only to his shoulder, was a woman with a blonde crew-cut, wearing nothing but a lime green sundress, white Keds, and some sort of semi-automatic assault rifle. Her eyes were large and unblinking, pale to the point of colorlessness, seeming to take up most of her round, otherwise unremarkable face. She remained silent.
"Good--" I cleared my throat and started again. "Good afternoon." There was a long pause during which neither of them responded, simply stared at me. I looked around, perplexed, as people hurried past us on the sidewalk, their eyes straight ahead, no one apparently noticing the woman carrying a rifle. "What can I do for you--"
"Well, friend!" The man pounced onto the end of my sentence with a used car salesman's enthusiasm. "The question seems not to be pertaining to the issue at hand of what, if anything, you might be able to do for us but rather, inversely, what we, being amongst your most humble servants, might do for you."
I opened my mouth to speak--to say what, God only knows--but he cut me off again.
"Allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Marcus and this is my lovely sister Melinda. You've heard of us, I'm sure, the famous brother and sister bounty-hunting duo? We don't stick to just bounty hunting, though, no friend, we're not picky at all. In fact, we would be much obliged if you would allow us to solve all of your problems. We can do it and we'd sure like to. It's the kind of thing we're truly spectacular at. What do you say?" Marcus's grin, which already could be categorized as rictus, somehow spread even wider. For a moment I thought his face would simply split in half. Melinda did not smile, but instead slowly stroked the large weapon hanging at her side.
"I--I'm not sure I have any problems, but thanks for the offer, I guess. I really have to be getting back to the office. I have a lot of work to do." I attempted to sidle past them, but Marcus stepped into my path, blocking me.
"But, friend, we think that you truly do have problems. A cheating wife, maybe, a nagging mother-in-law? Things going badly at work? You think maybe that bothersome, slimy, sticky, icky co-worker is going to get the promotion you deserve?"
"Nope, none of that," I responded tightly, although all those things were, distressingly enough, true. I was fairly certain my wife was having an affair with the UPS man (every time I came home, we seemed to own more packing tape), my mother-in-law had recently informed us that if we didn't produce a grandchild for her, she would cut us out of her will (I really wanted that beach house in Tampa), and Lawrence, my fellow manual-writer and cubicle mate had gone behind my back to our manager and claimed that I had stolen some of his work (yeah, like he could write an entire propane grill assembly manual). "Sounds like you've got the wrong guy. Now, if you'll please excuse me." I gestured for them to let me past.
Marcus's smile, the only part of his face I could see clearly, shrunk a little bit and took on an aspect of grimace. Melinda continued to stare at me balefully with her wide eyes. Marcus extended one bony hand to me. Between his index and middle finger was a business card. I took it. It read:
When I looked back up, both of them were gone. I shrugged and shook my head as I slid the business card into my shirt pocket.
"This heat must be getting to me," I muttered, and started back towards the office.
"We-hell! Somebody took a long lunch today!" Lawrence proclaimed in a loud voice as I walked into the cubicle we shared. "Out enjoying the weather? It's pretty hot out there today, isn't it! Ha-ha!"
I paused in the motion of sitting down, staring at my desk. "Lawrence, where's that draft I was working on before I left?"
Lawrence's small, watery eyes peered at me from behind his large spectacles with mock innocence. "Draft? I didn't see you working on a draft this morning."
"Goddammit, Lawrence, for the PlayCo Deluxe Swing Set! It was right here two hours ago!" I shuffled through the papers on my desk as irritation transformed into panic.
"Oh, that manual," Lawrence leaned back in his desk chair, lacing his chubby fingers over his rotund gut. "Well, I turned that old thing in hours ago. I thought you were done with it. Guess I was wrong, huh? Sorry, man."
I desperately tried to control my breathing as my hands clenched themselves into fists. I closed my eyes and tried to count to something, let's say 10, but I got distracted around 4 by the image of me wrapping my hands around Lawrence's fat neck and squeezing until he stopped moving.
He was momentarily spared as Bill, another co-worker poked his head into the cubicle and said to me, "Hey, Mr. McGowan wants to see you in his office."
"What for?" I asked.
"Dunno, something about a swing set. He seems pretty pissed."
Lawrence's eyes widened in a caricature of shock and he swung around to face me. I had to shove my itching hands into my pockets to stop them from clawing that expression off his face.
"Oh geez, you don't think--?" He gasped. For a moment, I thought I saw his mask slip and a look of smug satisfaction flit across his face.
At that point, I decided I had to leave. I had to leave now.
I rushed into the street, still blinded by fury. The storm that the single clap of thunder had heralded was now in full swing. Rain pounded with waterfall intensity out of the sky and within moments I was drenched. I hailed a cab and threw myself into the back seat.
"Where to, friend?" asked the cabbie in a low voice. He had a baseball cap on and I could only see his mouth in the rear view mirror. I had just finished giving him my address when my cell phone rang. It was my mother-in-law.
"Oh, fuck me, This is not what I need right now," I cursed, but answered the phone nonetheless.
"Have you and Alice gone to that fertility clinic I recommended? I mean, not that Alice really needs to go. She comes from a line of excellent breeders. We Dawson women haven't had a miscarriage in four generations! No, dear, I'm worried about you. Have you ever considered that you might have a low sperm count? Shooting blanks? That's what you young men call it. Well, it's all very medical and I don't know if that's really your area, dear, unless you've been writing some medical manuals I don't know about!" She laughed, a high-pitched, squawking sound, and I hung up on her.
"Wrong number, eh?" I heard a smile in the cabbie's voice. He sounded familiar.
"Shut the fuck up and drive," I snarled.
"Sure thing, friend."
I heard a sound behind me in the trunk of the car, like the thump of a fist against upholstery, but I decided it must have been a road noise. The cabbie switched on the radio and nodded affably to the soft rock that issued forth, his smile wide and knowing in the mirror. Caught up in my own thoughts, I did not notice that he was wearing a familiar red silk shirt.
Ten minutes later, I was throwing a twenty towards the cabbie and myself out of the car, running through the rain and up the stairs to my apartment.
"Alice, you won't belie--" I threw open the door and encountered something that, considering my day so far, I probably should have anticipated.
Alice, my lovely wife of six years, was bent over the arm of the couch with the UPS man behind her...well, you know, inserting Peg D into Slot C.
She looked up with a gasp of surprise, her expression guilty, but with a certain measure of defiance as well. She did not speak, but held my gaze firmly.
"You bitch!" I shrieked, after a pause.
The UPS guy nervously pulled his brown shorts up and grabbed his clipboard off the floor. "Hey, you know, Alice, I...I think I'd better get going," he mumbled and pushed past me out the door.
Alice sat down on the couch, covering herself with a pillow. I took a few steps further into the apartment.
"Don't tell me you didn't know," she said tightly.
"I had an idea," I responded, my voice raw.
"I think I want a divorce." She wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Do you love him?" I whispered.
She was silent a moment before she looked up at me. "No," she said slowly. "But I don't love you either."
I swallowed slowly and took a deep breath. "Did you ever?"
"How could I have?" The utter disgust in her voice cut through me. "You write manuals! The highlight of our week is Scrabble night! Everybody Loves Raymond is the raciest show you've ever watched! The only reason I married you in the first place is because my mother hated you. You're the most boring man I've ever met!" Her voice had worked its way up to a scream and she stood up to face me. She had let go of the pillow, and I couldn't help noticing how beautiful she was. I loved her. I hated her.
I could feel my hands shaking and clenching, my heart tearing in two. Abruptly, I turned around and quickly walked from the apartment, slamming the door behind me.
In the hallway, I pulled out my cell phone again, ignoring the four voicemail messages my mother-in-law had left, and dialed the number on the business card. Marcus answered on the first ring.
"Hello again, friend," I heard mocking laughter in his voice. "We had a feeling you would give us a call. Have a rough day? We know, we know. Be in the lobby in two minutes."
"Wait, how do you know where--" I started to ask, but he had already hung up.
Past caring too much that these two very frightening people seemed to know everything about me, I took the elevator down to the lobby.
They were there when I arrived, standing with their backs to me and watching the rain fall outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. They made a curious picture, and despite my current state of mental and emotional disorder, I paused a moment to take it in.
They turned around as one and walked across the polished marble floor of the empty lobby to greet me. Their every movement was completely in synch, their footsteps like that of a single person. Their arms even swung in time.
Marcus was already smiling. "We assume that you've decided to take us up on our very generous offer of just a short while ago. Either that or you must surely be in need of a high-quality catering service for your party, gathering, or wake!"
A cold shudder dragged its way down my back. Marcus straightened his baseball cap (I wondered absently what had happened to the cowboy hat) and Melinda wrapped one pale hand around the barrel of her rifle.
"How much would it cost for you to kill my wife?"
"Not much, friend, not much at all!" Marcus said brightly.
Marcus took me by my right arm and Melinda took me by my left and together they led me over to the window. Their hands pulsed with unnatural radiating heat, branding the skin of my arms through my wet shirt. Rain streamed down the window torrentially, distorting the figures outside and turning the street into a world of funhouse mirrors and dull gray light.
"You see the weather today, friend?" Marcus's mouth was very close to my ear as he gestured grandly at the gray street with his free arm. "Today's weather is perfect for the kind of thing you want to do. Why, today a pair of free-wheeling, fun-loving professional killers like my sister and me could take down the President of the United States of America if we wanted! Imagine that, friend! The President of the United States!" He mimed shooting a man passing on the street outside with his finger. "Pow! Dead, just as easy as you please. All we need from you is a little tit-for-tat, a quid pro quo, if you know what we mean."
"I don't know what you mean," I said numbly.
I could feel his hot breath against my cheek. It smelled sickly sweet, like rotting fruit. Their grasp tightened on my arms, the burning sensation growing intolerable.
"You are asking us to take something away from your dear and beautiful wife, friend. This woman you are bound to by the power of God Almighty. You can't just order her death without paying a price yourself. It's all about universal balance, friend."
"What are you?" I whimpered.
"We, friend, are simply here to help. We want to make you capable of doing whatever you want to do. You called us here, friend, because you need help. Because you don't have the balls to get things done alone."
I felt myself starting to cry.
"Don't go to pieces on us, friend, we need you just as much as you need us."
"Are you...you know, from inside...me?" I whispered.
"Don't be foolish, friend. There's no way we could be figments of your narrow imagination. Since when can a figment have a business card? Answer me that. See this? See this?" I felt Melinda press the rifle into my hands. Marcus' lips were grazing my cheek now as he spoke. "This is real. You want it, it's yours. Just say it, friend, say you want it. Say you want us to give you a hand."
As tears flowed uncontrollably down my face, all I could do was nod.
The next morning, the storm had passed, along with the unbearable heat. The sun was shining in a friendly way, and people were out on the street, enjoying the milder weather.
I accepted my chili dog and paid the vendor, taking a large and satisfying bite as I strolled down the street towards the office. I chewed thoughtfully for a while, enjoying the sensation, and then swallowed. The feeling of it entering my empty stomach was so extraordinarily filling and pleasurable that I don't think I could describe it. I ate the rest voraciously and wiped my mouth with a paper napkin.
A man passed me and threw his newspaper into the trash. The headline read "YOUNG WIFE BRUTALLY SLAIN IN DOWNTOWN APARTMENT, KILLER HUSBAND STILL ON THE LOOSE."
As I pushed open the door to the office and pulled the assault rifle out of a duffle bag, I thought to myself that you can live without a lot of things in life, but chili dogs aren't one of them.
"Good afternoon, friend," a deep, smooth voice intoned pleasantly.
The speaker was a tall, thin man wearing a red silk shirt, loose-fitting khakis, flip-flops, a cowboy hat, and a bandolier, the kind you usually see henchmen wearing in old Westerns. His features were indiscernible under the cowboy hat except for his smile, which was a wide slice across his face, stretching his skin taut. Next to him, coming up only to his shoulder, was a woman with a blonde crew-cut, wearing nothing but a lime green sundress, white Keds, and some sort of semi-automatic assault rifle. Her eyes were large and unblinking, pale to the point of colorlessness, seeming to take up most of her round, otherwise unremarkable face. She remained silent.
"Good--" I cleared my throat and started again. "Good afternoon." There was a long pause during which neither of them responded, simply stared at me. I looked around, perplexed, as people hurried past us on the sidewalk, their eyes straight ahead, no one apparently noticing the woman carrying a rifle. "What can I do for you--"
"Well, friend!" The man pounced onto the end of my sentence with a used car salesman's enthusiasm. "The question seems not to be pertaining to the issue at hand of what, if anything, you might be able to do for us but rather, inversely, what we, being amongst your most humble servants, might do for you."
I opened my mouth to speak--to say what, God only knows--but he cut me off again.
"Allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Marcus and this is my lovely sister Melinda. You've heard of us, I'm sure, the famous brother and sister bounty-hunting duo? We don't stick to just bounty hunting, though, no friend, we're not picky at all. In fact, we would be much obliged if you would allow us to solve all of your problems. We can do it and we'd sure like to. It's the kind of thing we're truly spectacular at. What do you say?" Marcus's grin, which already could be categorized as rictus, somehow spread even wider. For a moment I thought his face would simply split in half. Melinda did not smile, but instead slowly stroked the large weapon hanging at her side.
"I--I'm not sure I have any problems, but thanks for the offer, I guess. I really have to be getting back to the office. I have a lot of work to do." I attempted to sidle past them, but Marcus stepped into my path, blocking me.
"But, friend, we think that you truly do have problems. A cheating wife, maybe, a nagging mother-in-law? Things going badly at work? You think maybe that bothersome, slimy, sticky, icky co-worker is going to get the promotion you deserve?"
"Nope, none of that," I responded tightly, although all those things were, distressingly enough, true. I was fairly certain my wife was having an affair with the UPS man (every time I came home, we seemed to own more packing tape), my mother-in-law had recently informed us that if we didn't produce a grandchild for her, she would cut us out of her will (I really wanted that beach house in Tampa), and Lawrence, my fellow manual-writer and cubicle mate had gone behind my back to our manager and claimed that I had stolen some of his work (yeah, like he could write an entire propane grill assembly manual). "Sounds like you've got the wrong guy. Now, if you'll please excuse me." I gestured for them to let me past.
Marcus's smile, the only part of his face I could see clearly, shrunk a little bit and took on an aspect of grimace. Melinda continued to stare at me balefully with her wide eyes. Marcus extended one bony hand to me. Between his index and middle finger was a business card. I took it. It read:
Melinda and Marcus Totenmeyer
Bounty Hunting, Assassination, and Catering
1-888-KILL-NOW
When I looked back up, both of them were gone. I shrugged and shook my head as I slid the business card into my shirt pocket.
"This heat must be getting to me," I muttered, and started back towards the office.
* * *
"We-hell! Somebody took a long lunch today!" Lawrence proclaimed in a loud voice as I walked into the cubicle we shared. "Out enjoying the weather? It's pretty hot out there today, isn't it! Ha-ha!"
I paused in the motion of sitting down, staring at my desk. "Lawrence, where's that draft I was working on before I left?"
Lawrence's small, watery eyes peered at me from behind his large spectacles with mock innocence. "Draft? I didn't see you working on a draft this morning."
"Goddammit, Lawrence, for the PlayCo Deluxe Swing Set! It was right here two hours ago!" I shuffled through the papers on my desk as irritation transformed into panic.
"Oh, that manual," Lawrence leaned back in his desk chair, lacing his chubby fingers over his rotund gut. "Well, I turned that old thing in hours ago. I thought you were done with it. Guess I was wrong, huh? Sorry, man."
I desperately tried to control my breathing as my hands clenched themselves into fists. I closed my eyes and tried to count to something, let's say 10, but I got distracted around 4 by the image of me wrapping my hands around Lawrence's fat neck and squeezing until he stopped moving.
He was momentarily spared as Bill, another co-worker poked his head into the cubicle and said to me, "Hey, Mr. McGowan wants to see you in his office."
"What for?" I asked.
"Dunno, something about a swing set. He seems pretty pissed."
Lawrence's eyes widened in a caricature of shock and he swung around to face me. I had to shove my itching hands into my pockets to stop them from clawing that expression off his face.
"Oh geez, you don't think--?" He gasped. For a moment, I thought I saw his mask slip and a look of smug satisfaction flit across his face.
At that point, I decided I had to leave. I had to leave now.
I rushed into the street, still blinded by fury. The storm that the single clap of thunder had heralded was now in full swing. Rain pounded with waterfall intensity out of the sky and within moments I was drenched. I hailed a cab and threw myself into the back seat.
"Where to, friend?" asked the cabbie in a low voice. He had a baseball cap on and I could only see his mouth in the rear view mirror. I had just finished giving him my address when my cell phone rang. It was my mother-in-law.
"Oh, fuck me, This is not what I need right now," I cursed, but answered the phone nonetheless.
"Have you and Alice gone to that fertility clinic I recommended? I mean, not that Alice really needs to go. She comes from a line of excellent breeders. We Dawson women haven't had a miscarriage in four generations! No, dear, I'm worried about you. Have you ever considered that you might have a low sperm count? Shooting blanks? That's what you young men call it. Well, it's all very medical and I don't know if that's really your area, dear, unless you've been writing some medical manuals I don't know about!" She laughed, a high-pitched, squawking sound, and I hung up on her.
"Wrong number, eh?" I heard a smile in the cabbie's voice. He sounded familiar.
"Shut the fuck up and drive," I snarled.
"Sure thing, friend."
I heard a sound behind me in the trunk of the car, like the thump of a fist against upholstery, but I decided it must have been a road noise. The cabbie switched on the radio and nodded affably to the soft rock that issued forth, his smile wide and knowing in the mirror. Caught up in my own thoughts, I did not notice that he was wearing a familiar red silk shirt.
Ten minutes later, I was throwing a twenty towards the cabbie and myself out of the car, running through the rain and up the stairs to my apartment.
"Alice, you won't belie--" I threw open the door and encountered something that, considering my day so far, I probably should have anticipated.
Alice, my lovely wife of six years, was bent over the arm of the couch with the UPS man behind her...well, you know, inserting Peg D into Slot C.
She looked up with a gasp of surprise, her expression guilty, but with a certain measure of defiance as well. She did not speak, but held my gaze firmly.
"You bitch!" I shrieked, after a pause.
The UPS guy nervously pulled his brown shorts up and grabbed his clipboard off the floor. "Hey, you know, Alice, I...I think I'd better get going," he mumbled and pushed past me out the door.
Alice sat down on the couch, covering herself with a pillow. I took a few steps further into the apartment.
"Don't tell me you didn't know," she said tightly.
"I had an idea," I responded, my voice raw.
"I think I want a divorce." She wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Do you love him?" I whispered.
She was silent a moment before she looked up at me. "No," she said slowly. "But I don't love you either."
I swallowed slowly and took a deep breath. "Did you ever?"
"How could I have?" The utter disgust in her voice cut through me. "You write manuals! The highlight of our week is Scrabble night! Everybody Loves Raymond is the raciest show you've ever watched! The only reason I married you in the first place is because my mother hated you. You're the most boring man I've ever met!" Her voice had worked its way up to a scream and she stood up to face me. She had let go of the pillow, and I couldn't help noticing how beautiful she was. I loved her. I hated her.
I could feel my hands shaking and clenching, my heart tearing in two. Abruptly, I turned around and quickly walked from the apartment, slamming the door behind me.
In the hallway, I pulled out my cell phone again, ignoring the four voicemail messages my mother-in-law had left, and dialed the number on the business card. Marcus answered on the first ring.
"Hello again, friend," I heard mocking laughter in his voice. "We had a feeling you would give us a call. Have a rough day? We know, we know. Be in the lobby in two minutes."
"Wait, how do you know where--" I started to ask, but he had already hung up.
Past caring too much that these two very frightening people seemed to know everything about me, I took the elevator down to the lobby.
They were there when I arrived, standing with their backs to me and watching the rain fall outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. They made a curious picture, and despite my current state of mental and emotional disorder, I paused a moment to take it in.
They turned around as one and walked across the polished marble floor of the empty lobby to greet me. Their every movement was completely in synch, their footsteps like that of a single person. Their arms even swung in time.
Marcus was already smiling. "We assume that you've decided to take us up on our very generous offer of just a short while ago. Either that or you must surely be in need of a high-quality catering service for your party, gathering, or wake!"
A cold shudder dragged its way down my back. Marcus straightened his baseball cap (I wondered absently what had happened to the cowboy hat) and Melinda wrapped one pale hand around the barrel of her rifle.
"How much would it cost for you to kill my wife?"
"Not much, friend, not much at all!" Marcus said brightly.
Marcus took me by my right arm and Melinda took me by my left and together they led me over to the window. Their hands pulsed with unnatural radiating heat, branding the skin of my arms through my wet shirt. Rain streamed down the window torrentially, distorting the figures outside and turning the street into a world of funhouse mirrors and dull gray light.
"You see the weather today, friend?" Marcus's mouth was very close to my ear as he gestured grandly at the gray street with his free arm. "Today's weather is perfect for the kind of thing you want to do. Why, today a pair of free-wheeling, fun-loving professional killers like my sister and me could take down the President of the United States of America if we wanted! Imagine that, friend! The President of the United States!" He mimed shooting a man passing on the street outside with his finger. "Pow! Dead, just as easy as you please. All we need from you is a little tit-for-tat, a quid pro quo, if you know what we mean."
"I don't know what you mean," I said numbly.
I could feel his hot breath against my cheek. It smelled sickly sweet, like rotting fruit. Their grasp tightened on my arms, the burning sensation growing intolerable.
"You are asking us to take something away from your dear and beautiful wife, friend. This woman you are bound to by the power of God Almighty. You can't just order her death without paying a price yourself. It's all about universal balance, friend."
"What are you?" I whimpered.
"We, friend, are simply here to help. We want to make you capable of doing whatever you want to do. You called us here, friend, because you need help. Because you don't have the balls to get things done alone."
I felt myself starting to cry.
"Don't go to pieces on us, friend, we need you just as much as you need us."
"Are you...you know, from inside...me?" I whispered.
"Don't be foolish, friend. There's no way we could be figments of your narrow imagination. Since when can a figment have a business card? Answer me that. See this? See this?" I felt Melinda press the rifle into my hands. Marcus' lips were grazing my cheek now as he spoke. "This is real. You want it, it's yours. Just say it, friend, say you want it. Say you want us to give you a hand."
As tears flowed uncontrollably down my face, all I could do was nod.
* * *
The next morning, the storm had passed, along with the unbearable heat. The sun was shining in a friendly way, and people were out on the street, enjoying the milder weather.
I accepted my chili dog and paid the vendor, taking a large and satisfying bite as I strolled down the street towards the office. I chewed thoughtfully for a while, enjoying the sensation, and then swallowed. The feeling of it entering my empty stomach was so extraordinarily filling and pleasurable that I don't think I could describe it. I ate the rest voraciously and wiped my mouth with a paper napkin.
A man passed me and threw his newspaper into the trash. The headline read "YOUNG WIFE BRUTALLY SLAIN IN DOWNTOWN APARTMENT, KILLER HUSBAND STILL ON THE LOOSE."
As I pushed open the door to the office and pulled the assault rifle out of a duffle bag, I thought to myself that you can live without a lot of things in life, but chili dogs aren't one of them.
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