Tim Finnegan has tracked the two men that abducted his brother, James, at gunpoint to a river camp in Evansville, Indiana, after retrieving his inheritence: A Remington 870 twelve gauge shotgun...
“Look, we was told to grab him and pound on him for bit, then hold tight.” Ziggy whispered, “We get told to kill him, he’s over, if not we leave him here and he might live. I don’t care what this guy did or didn’t do, what I care about is my money.”
“I know, Ziggy, but---“
“Shut up, Tiny!” Ziggy whispered harshly.
Tiny turned the whine up a notch, “Don’t shush me, Ziggy!”
“I heard something, bitch, be quiet.”
To his credit, Ziggy had heard something. He heard the click when I switched my safety off. A few seconds later, the front door to the trailer swung open.
A brief moment of clarity struck me: I am not Tim Finnegan.
I am the twisting maelstrom of excrement and broken glass that befalls my enemy. I am my enemy.
I am this gun.
I am a spark. I am a chemical reaction. I am hot steel shot. I am the cloud of blood, bone and brain matter that used to that guy’s head.
I am not done yet.