So the rocket veers off and goes in through a door, the wrong door, and blows open some old lady’s apartment like an old can. And the damn target knows what’s going down, and runs like hell, and I have to step in and put him down, right there in the hall, and then I have to clean up the rest of the mess, and this, this is why you don’t let the rookie do the deed because he sends the damn rocket into the wrong damn apartment, so I’m left cleaning up. By which I mean shooting the old lady and everyone else around, just because she was in the wrong place and because the rookie screwed up.
So what can I do but hop in the car and go after him, since he’s already fled, he knows that I’ll be coming after him to fix his ass for that one. I have to figure out where he’s going, probably some bar; he always goes to bars. Maybe he’s smart enough not to, or maybe he thinks that I don’t know, but there I am, hitting the shittiest bar on his list. And I’m in, and there I go, punching someone in the face, and you’d think there would be consequences to these actions, but no, not if you pick the right bars, so I’m punching this guy in the face and hoping that no one else gets the idea to bother us, which they won’t, because they aren’t those type of people. Not the type to step in and get their own faces punched, and, the hell, like they care about this guy. He’s a loser, they’re all losers. He doesn’t even have the info I need.
So it’s off again, and, damn, there he is, walking into the next bar, and he sees me, and shit, there goes my windshield, and there goes the paint job. Bastard. Even now, even when his life depends on it, he’s not a good shot, and I wonder what the hell happened, because he was, he used to be, he was find yesterday, and now he’s all gone to hell. All gone to hell, and the .45-caliber rounds punch through my car, but the engine is protecting me, and we’re in a neighborhood that won’t be woken up by a little automatic gunfire, not from a pistol, anyway.
Shit, maybe I should just talk to him, get him to come around, maybe work him over. But it won’t happen that way, because he knows I’m mad, knows that I’m not one to forgive easily, knows that I hate having holes shot in my car.
You’d think that someone would still call the cops, right? You’d think so. No one does. Someone else will, right? And they aren’t shooting at me, so that’s a relief. So no one does.
But he was shooting at me. Not that I’m calling the cops, right? He’s ducked around the corner, he’s going to be running, no way he’s hiding back there, waiting to ambush me and put those damn 45s in my head. No, he’s running, and pulling a fresh clip, and he’s smart enough to run like hell and not waste time looking back. You trip over things when you do that, and there’s no point in watching the bullet come at you, anyway.
And, you know? Fuck it. I don’t need this. I let him run. Just like the others, he runs. He’ll keep running, and maybe he’ll relax, or maybe he won’t. Either way, he won’t be back. He’s going to believe that I’m onto him, that I won’t let him go, but I don’t give a fuck. I’ve seen this too many times, seen this end badly. I’m in control, now, and I’m saying how it ends. It ends with him running for his life, and me calling Robbie to patch up my car. Again.
Just like the last time. And the time before.
And the time before, when this was my boss’s car, and I was a better shot.