Jump the Gun

He had just come out of a movie that evening as he was dusting his derby black hat. Someone had thrown popcorn during the movie and some got on his black beauty. It had infuriated him so much. He actually innately heard the popped corn land on his hat while there was a giant explosion happening in the storyline of the movie. The hat was preciously laying next to him on an empty seat. He had turned to see who the culprit was, but they all looked like they were full of menace. He wanted revenge on an impossible suspect to be found.

He also didn’t care much for the movie. He thought it had too much eye candy with no plot. That’s why he had ditched his date. She just kept talking about it too much, when there was nothing to say besides how much death it promoted. Plus, the woman kept complaining about the fact that he had saved a seat for his derby hat and not her. She was lucky there was a seat that was made available on the other side of him while arguing.

He walked towards the loneliest bar ever. It was his spot, hardly anyone to bother him or inconvenience him there. For him, it was liquor-sipping utopia. It was a heavenly dump where wasted lives and souls go to redeem their living status by developing epiphanies that will never come to be due to heavy procrastination and negative envious vibes.

His cane which he swung along his side had a nice glide to it as he waltzed down the boulevard with his beauteous black derby. He had a nice matching black jacket with some nice slim slacks.

He really didn’t need his cane anymore. His leg wound had been healed forever now. He just loved a companion for his restless mind as he walked. Plus, this cane saved his life once. Maybe it was more than once, but he only speaks of it as once. Who knows what Mr. Pitts does with his thrilling stories? They are so many and many of them are told countless of times since they are very thrilling.

He was nearing the bar when three individuals were walking up on him. From behind they came, as Mr. Pitts had already taken notice of. He kept his naive look strolling along with the cloudy weather that Mr. Pitts loved dearly. A little sprinkle could be felt on the cheek, but that was heaven for him.

The men walked past him laughing and joking about something made up. Mr. Pitts knew the type. They were up to something. They sure were up to something, as they turned on him and walked backwards, facing him. All three of them were looking at Mr. Pitts, as if amused by the appearance of him. Mr. Pitts kept his cool stroll with an added whistle, Iron Man by Black Sabbath, to make it look like he was not scared, which he was not to the least.

The leader, at least the one who acted like the leader, put his hand out to gesture Mr. Pitts to stop as he looked down, he was wearing a hoodie. The other two stopped alongside their erratic leader. Mr. Pitts stopped a foot away from the leader’s hand, which was extended all the way―still whistling.

The leader of the three looked up by raising his glare slowly. He tried to give his glare a spooky effect. Mr. Pitts thought it was a bit farcical.

“I like the hat old man,” complemented the leader in a sarcastic manner.

Mr. Pitts had his signature smirk on his face.

“Would you mind if I could see...”

Mr. Pitts drew out a knife from the handle of his cane with his left.

It was lighting fast.

Mr. Pitts slashed across with his left as the leader’s hand, his palm, was lacerated deep to the point that the sharp blade scraped a couple of the metacarpal bones.

The leader retracted his hand in astonishing surprise. He held it with his other hand up to his chest. Blood started gushing like a geyser onto his clothes, his white Nike shoes.

“What the fuck man!”

Mr. Pitts stood there in a fighting stance. His left shoulder was facing them with the knife hanging low and the cane on his right behind him away from sight waiting to come around and deliver a deadly blow.

One of the other two brought a knife out. It was a switchblade.

How cliché thought Mr. Pitts.

“Dude, you fucked up hard!” the switchblade hood said with his cap backwards and wearing a No Fear T-shirt. This jerk had his black hoodie tied around his waist.

Mr. Pitts upgraded the situation by dropping his black cane that was missing its silver handle, which was on his left hand―the silver handle was actually being held tight inside Mr. Pitts grip like a roll of quarters as the blade came out from between the ring finger and the middle finger. It was a blade made to be held with a fist, a push dagger. The blade that had lacerated the leader’s hand had a trickle of blood dripping from its edge.

After dropping the cane, Mr. Pitts reached into the inside of his black jacket very quick and got out his .25 with his right hand. He pointed the gun at the three men. Mr. Pitts, now, led his stance with his right leg.

The third hoodlum who was unarmed stepped up.

“Awe, what a nice little gun!” the man giggled as he was reaching for his pocket, and added, “that thing looks like it gets jammed all the...”

Pack! Pack!

Mr. Pitts shot the man twice in the face. The man fell to his knees grabbing his face as blood started oozing out profusely.  One shot got him right on the chin, pushing his jaw back and the other shot on the right cheek bone. Both bullets were wedge in his face, as he tried to talk but his jaw was shattered.

The other two guys scrammed.

Mr. Pitts picked up his cane, put the knife away into the cane, and walked right up to the man shot in the face with his gun. He aimed, as he fixed the gun at the man’s right eye.

“It never gets jammed,” said Mr. Pitts.

The man was looking up at Mr. Pitts while holding his bleeding, numb face.

Then, Mr. Pitts put the gun down, still in his hand, and he walked away to the bar where he was destined earlier to finish the night with a couple of drinks. His dilemma on the way to the bar was not knowing to drink a nice, tasty, dark beer or a nice Jim Beam on the rocks.