Warning: Extreme violence and some language
Some people watch too many movies. Like the guys from my last job. A bunch of Quentin Tarantino wannabes, I tell ya. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start back at the beginning.
It all started with, fittingly enough, a diamond heist. A group of thugs stole $5 million in diamonds from my employer, figuring they could get away with it scott-free. I mean, come on, a crime lord isn’t exactly going to call the police and tell them his ill-gotten jewels were stolen, right? Right. He called me instead.
I tracked the thieves to an abandoned mortuary, a fitting location in more than one way. I entered the building through an unlocked side door, my trusty Glock 10mm at the ready. I could hear the six men inside; it sounded like they were arguing. The room I entered was empty, so I quietly moved towards the doorway to the building’s main room. What I saw in there almost-almost-made me laugh. Six men, sitting around a table, all of them with their hair slicked back, and all of themwearing Ray-Ban sunglasses and Agnes B suits. Holy crap! What did they think this was, Reservoir Dogs? Reservior Mutts was more like it. They’re probably all carrying Smith & Wesson automatics too, I thought to myself jokingly. Then I got serious.
I stepped into the room, my Glock up and ready. But the six guys (I’d named them after the bandits from the movie) were so engrossed in their game of poker-which they were playing with my employer’s diamonds instead of chips-that they didn’t even notice me. Not that I can fault them; it was cut-throat. One of the guys, Mr. White, had just won about $300,000 from another, Mr. Orange, and Orange wasn’t happy. He slammed his fist down on the table and yelled that White had to be cheating. Mr. Pink laughed and told pink to calm down. Orange didn’t calm down, in fact he did quite the opposite: he picked up his can of beer and hurled it across the room. Straight into my gut.
The six guys all whirled arround in surprise as I grunted in startled pain; he hit me hard! Then, in a move that would have made Mr. Tarantino himself very proud, they all shoved their chairs away from the table in unison and reached into their jackets. They all pulled out Smith & Wesson automatics and pointed them at me. I dove for the floor as a hail of 9mm slugs tore through the space I’d just been occupying, double-tapping my Glock’s trigger as I hit the ground. Mr. Brown’s head popped like a baloon. One down.
I rolled quickly to my right, rapid-firing at Mr. Orange. I got him once-in the stomach, ironically enough-before my Glock went dry. I scurried behind the small refrigerator in the rooms corner for a quick reload. No sooner do I release my gun’s slide lock then Mr. Pink comes flying over the fridge, firing wildy. Three 10mm hollowpoints to the chest taught him the stupidity of such a move. Not that they mattered; his neck snapped when he landed head-first on the concrete floor. Two down. I swept out from behind the fridge and spotted Mr. Blue drawing a bead on me. I squeezed the trigger four times and watched him go down hard. Three down. I saw Orange trying to get back to his feet a second later. Two hollowpoints to the head ensured he’d never make it. Four down. And now the room is empty. Not good. Mr. Blonde pokes his head out from behind a shipping crate. I fired twice, missing, but forcing him behind cover. Then a bullet whizzed by, less than an inch from my right ear. I did a wild mid-air twist to bring my gun to bear on Mr. White, who’d taken refuge in the room I entered from. All of my shots missed, and my Glock’s slide locked back on an empty magazine. And that was my only reload. Damn it!
I spotted Mr. Brown’s S&W lying on the ground a yard in front of me and dive on top of it. He never got a shot off, so it had a full clip. Mr. Orange was lying dead next to me, another S&W clutched loosely in his hand. I relievedhim of his weapon, just as Mr. Blonde and Mr. White both came out from behind their cover. I put a gun on each of them, but none of us fired.
My gaze flicked back and forth between my enemies for a long moment, before the irony of the situation-that we’d just walked into a scene straight out of a Quentin Tarantino move-wore off. My two “friends,” on the other hand, seemed to be drinking the irony up like it was cold beer at a football game. Their loss.
“The hell with this,” I said after I’d grown tired of looking the starry, far away look in their eyes (they must have been major Tarantino fans), and let the S&W in my left hand-Mr Orange’s-fall, dropped to one knee, and put two 9mm slugs into Mr. Blonde’s face. The gunshots snapped Mr. White out of his stupor and he fired reflexively. His shot passed a good two feet above my head. I spun 180 degrees, rising into a half-crouch as I turned, and unloaded the rest of my Smith’s magazine into White’s chest. He was dead before he started to fall. I picked up my Glock and Orange’s S&W, walked over to the table, retrieved my employer’s diamonds, and calmly walked from the building, reminding myself to carry more spare ammo next time.