Rebel Mart

With a snap of his wrist the blade sprung open.  "Now what did ya say, lady?  You say I owe you how much?  Just hand me da money in da register so nobody gets hurt. I have a feelin' I'm gonna need it a lot more than you ever will."

Bossy hit the cash drawer release.  As it sprang open she

retrieved her revolver from her purse in the cupboard space below.  She pointed the weapon directly at Patrick's face and frowned as she pulled the hammer back.  "Look here, son.  I know ya must be going through a hard time or somethin' but ya can't steal.  I already hit the alarm button an' called the law.  They'll take you off my hands, but you ain't leavin' the store.  Maybe when you sober up you can get outta town but don't move or I'll put ya down like a horse with a broke leg."

Something came over Patrick. He suddenly felt very hot.  It was like he wanted to follow Bossy's instructions but he knew that would never work. It was almost as if he sensed the same desperation in her that he knew was within himself.  He started to speak but Bossy extended her arm forward.  The gun's barrel rested inches away from his nose.

"I'm not playin', son.  This is for real.  If you move it'll be a mistake.  Sit still and wait for the sheriff.  This don't haft to be any worse than it already is."  Bossy sensed something too -- that kinship shared between two people, no matter how different, yet somehow the same. She feared that hopelessness and despair would prevail.

Time ceased as Bossy and Patrick sized each other up. The compressor back in the beer cooler jerked on and vibrated as it came to life. Patrick’s factory-farm chicken dinner wafted its scent between the two adversaries. Finally, Bossy spoke: "It might look better if ya drop the knife, son."  

"Can't do that, lady."  Patrick lunged forward.  There was the sudden explosion of a gunshot. Patrick died the instant his feet left the floor. The lead slug traveled six inches and penetrated his forehead. The wound it opened was catastrophic.

Bossy watched in horror as the body flew backward, thinking that it looked like a scarecrow caught in a gust of wind. Patrick's neck and what was left of his head hit the window first, followed by his torso. The momentum carried him through the glass, onto the concrete walkway next to a newspaper vending machine. Patrick's body lay still and silent. He was finally at peace. Above, the flashing New Age sign reflected its neon message in his pool of blood. 

"First that ol' bitch from New York an' now this," mumbled Bossy. She popped another pill and dialed 911.