It didn’t take me long to come to that decision. A second, maybe. Sometimes they come easy.

Grabbing the gun, I looked for feet. The guy I’d hit with the brick was wheezing a bit, but struggling to his knees. The other guy was helping him. Their jogging suits had these little logos on them that I couldn’t quite make out. They looked like targets. I aimed and squeezed. You’re supposed to squeeze, y’know.

*click*

Fucking safety. All that TV and I still forgot the fucking safety. How was that goon going to shoot me with the safety on? I struggled with the thing. It was tiny and black and had lots of protrusions, and how the hell anybody could tell which was the safety was a mystery. I pulled at a protusion and it moved with a satisfying clicky sound. I aimed and squeezed again.

*BRRRRRRAP*

AGH! Holy Jesus Mother of God that was loud. Note to self, do not ever fire a gun while huddled under a car, EVER. I didn’t remember the shots having any noise before, did they take their silencers off before coming after me down the alley? Christ. I didn’t even hit anything. Well, I did hit the broad side of the back of my apartment building. The goons were scrambling. I shook my head. Fuck it. Aimed and squeezed.

*BRRRRAP*

A shorter burst leapt out of the stubby muzzle, and when I pulled the trigger a third time it just clicked. An uzi’s clip holds 40 bullets, and the thing shoots 600 rounds a minute. I looked it up. No wonder I only got off two short bursts. But wonder of wonders, brick-to-the-chest goon was on the ground, writhing, as blood seeped from a big old hole in his jogging pants. Eat it! I thought, uncharitably, smiling through the squal of incipient tinnitus. Ok goon number 2, show your face.

He did, just then, by grabbing my foot and dragging me out from under the car, back into the rain. Would this storm never end? It was stinging my eyes as I peered up at him wondering if I was going to shit my pants. I couldn’t quite make out his face, but I clearly heard his voice as he aimed, and started to pull, not squeeze.

“That’s it, dick. I’ve had enough.”

Me too. I thought, and kicked him in the nuts, rolling to the side as best I could, knowing, just knowing I was going to get shot in the ass even if this worked perfectly.

I didn’t get shot in the ass, and I did dodge the *BRRRRRAP* of the goon’s uzi although it wasn’t by more than the outside molecule of my polyester/cotton blend sweatpants. Should’ve squeezed. After his *BRRRRRAP* the goon collapsed, groaning, on top of me. I kicked his gun away, and struggled to get him off. He was a bit of a fat bastard, for a goon in a jogging suit. Good for punching, and I wailed away as I pushed at his bulk. I got in a couple good shots too, one to his jaw that made an audible crack and knocked him right out.

That sort of thing doesn’t last for long, I hear, so with one last heave I rolled Donut Don over and away and scrambled to my feet, looking around and trying to figure out what the hell to do next. That turned out to be dive for cover, as shots rang out from the dark alleyway, accompanied by the frantic, beautiful, angry, hysterical voice of Anne-Marie. I guess not everyone had run away when they heard the shooting start.

“GOD DAMN MOTHERFUCKING SHIT COCK GOD DAMN FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER GOD DAMN”

She never was very good at swearing.

I crouched behind the car, or what there was of it, as it took a couple hits to the passenger window and a tire. Cars were having a bad time of it today, man. Goon #1 with the hole in his leg was scraping his way to cover, and Goon #2, Big Gulp Joe, was still unconscious. How about that! I didn’t know my own strength! My ego trip was cut short by a close call with a metal slug ricocheting off the roof of the car. How did she even fire at that angle? Weird.

“Anne-Marie! Stop! Anne-Marie!”

“FUCK FUCK FUCK MOTHERFUCK GOD DAMN FUCKING MOTHERFUCK”

She must not have heard me over the stream of her own invective, as another shot clanged into the rear bumper at an angle, scraping off part of a bumper sticker that used to read “My student is at the top of his class”, but with the violent revision said something a little perverse. Why would you put a bumper sticker on your sports car?

I started to wonder whether Anne-Marie had indeed heard me and was bent on my murder after all, when she gasped and let out a tiny “Omygod” and a sob.

“M-Mark?”

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