"You can't be serious."
I stared at him with disbelief.
Only moments before, he had uttered a line so cliched, they wouldn't even use it in a B-Movie made for USA Network:
"Stick 'em up."
He had a gun pointed right at my chest, and if he would've pulled the trigger, I'd be as dead as a four pound rat, most of my best parts staining the brick facade of my apartment complex.
And yet, I had no fear, none whatsoever.
For he who is about to die will achieve utter clarity, as he is facing the great unknown, and will receive absolute release from all that has gripped him through his years.
And I knew that.
I had decided, instead, to focus on his peculiar use of a cartoon phrase while commiting an act of random violence.
And now, he was just staring at me, unable to answer my challenge that he wasn't serious.
I decided he was a real maroon.
A wave of bravado swept over me.
"You gotta be crazy sticking ME up, you @&$* piece of @%$#!" I screamed in the lowest register I could muster, almost knocking him over with the sheer force of my pent-up outrage over people trying to bully me into doing what they want.
"I've got a gun," he said in his shakiest possible voice.
"And I'm gonna make you EAT that gun," I was extremely surprised to hear myself say.
The situation was getting bad. I had really thrown him, and the worst thing you can do is make a gunman MORE nervous.
And I had.
I jerked my head to the left.
"I just saw a COP pull into the parking lot, man, let's get outta here!" I shouted, as if I had some reason to run from the cops.
You wouldn't expect a guy to fall for a trick like that, but he did, and to my utter and absolute amazement, when his gun wavered so that it was no longer pointing at my heart, I brought up one surprisingly agile leg, and kicked the gun, almost out of his hand!
Almost.
I punched him in the throat as he was recovering his grip, kicked him squarely in the groin, and as he fell back, I heard the unmistakable sound of close range gunfire echoing in my ears.
I was wounded.
I didn't know how bad.
I felt no pain.
There really wasn't a cop pulling into the parking lot, of course, but there were plenty of curious faces peeking around curtains, and my assailant started to run.
I jumped to my feet to give chase.
I wobbled, and noticed blood gushing from my thigh.
I sprinted after him, and to my delight, he tripped over a concrete block some inconsiderate person had left lying in the parking lot, half covered with snow.
But my leg had had enough.
"Get him!" I shouted to two Mexican guys who were emerging from the doorway of the neighboring building. They took one look at my blood soaked pants, the gun in my assailant's hand, and as if shot from a cannon were on top of him, wrestling the gun away.
I crawled over to where they were, and one of the men offered me the gun. I took it from him, and shot my assailant in the thigh.
Neither man flinched.
"A thigh for a thigh," I laughed nervously, but I don't think they spoke English well enough to get the joke, and they looked a little worried that they had just armed a crazy man, so I offered one of them the gun back.
He was only too happy to take it.
"I think I'll pass out now, OK?" I smiled, and out went the lights.
A week later, at work, someone asked me if I was going to get a gun, to protect myself from robbers, and muggers.
"Nah, I don't need one," I said, with a wink.
"Why not?" this suddenly very concerned co-worker queried.
"Because I'm not going to live forever, you know."
(this is a work of fiction)
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