I got a ringin in my head...

Before we start this off, two links that came up thanks to my dearest, loving sister-in-law:

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2010/10/12/beware-of-writer/

http://www.rebeccarosenblum.com/2010/10/07/why-date-a-writer/

Ah god.

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"Stumbled across an impression today, handprint melted deep into the concrete outside the Darlin Darlene down on 5th. Four small fingers and a thumb about an inch deep, stretched wide like the sunbeams spreading out from the east over the city.

Could hear the flicker of the neon lights proclaiming the closing of the bar as I stumbled past it, my eyes trailing behind me, not breaking focus. Pulled my Stetson down and flipped my collar up against the wind. Stuffed the brown end of a cigarette between my teeth and lit it up, the wind whipping the flame from my lighter around until the tip finally caught flame. Spitting smoke and phlegm I put my hands in the deep pockets of my coat and squeezed them around me. Buttons are too bothersome, and the weight of steel under my arm necessitated doing it the hard way.

Took a left on Woolridge, thought I might grab a coffee from the bakery down by Jimmy's, get the taste of whiskey off of my tongue for a little bit. About three blocks down I pulled up short to the curb, waiting for the red hand of the law to let me continue. That's when I heard the tinny sound of a muffler cascade down the street towards me, tires screeching as they really started to lean on it.

I opened my mouth and my cigarette tumbled down the front of my coat, getting swiped away as my hands left the pockets and reached deep inside the warmth to find the cold steel. Before the orange sedan could come to a stop I'd put three, four shots into the windshield, and another two into the front, passenger side tire.  Riding so low it didn't take kindly to the tread stripping away and the silver of the rim digging deep into the asphalt.

It cartwheeled halfway across the intersection before it finally stopped shiny side up. I'd slipped another magazine into the gun at this point, had the cigarette halfway to my mouth, and then two of the mangled doors finally creaked off their hinges with the help of some black, military style boots. They came out, swinging their peashooters up, and went down, swinging them all the way up to heaven. Two in the first, three in the second.

I spit out some more smoke, some more phlegm, and saw that the hand of the law was still red. I found that kinda ironic. I looked to my left, and saw a woman there, that same horrified look on her face as she clutched her kid to her. Tipped my hat and kept on walkin."

They look at me, stunned, clad in their blue uniforms and bold shields and no-nonsense haircuts. That cliche lightbulb swings over the metal slab of a table, as we sit here in this concrete room with one way mirrors.

"What?," I say, "there's my official statement. Now unless you're gonna be pressin charges, then I'd like to be on my way."

"Uh, well, discharging firearms within the city limits does carry a hefty fine, and-"

"Check with Roscoe, Inc. son, they've got my discharge permit on file."

They excuse themselves and head out, looking back at me while they shut the door. Yeup, hand of the law's still as red as can be. I lean back and kick my boots up on the table and light up while I wait. They'll be back soon.