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Twelve O’ Clock Appointment by Ray Printer Friendly

Our eyes lock, and although it doesn’t seem like I should have the time to think, I still mange to wonder if I scare him as much as he scares me. Blurred hands, but that doesn’t matter.

The only thing I see are his eyes, and the only thing he sees are mine. Two sharp cracks sound out, ripping the silence from the air, so close together that they might as well be one. Somewhere in my mind, I know that they’re loud, but they’re distant, muted.

His expression never changes as he is knocked off his feet. Once eye contact is broken, once it is over, the world slowly returns. I glance down at the smoking gun in my hand, and my eyes begin to water—the smoke always stings, and it always manages to get into my eyes.

I check to make sure I haven’t been hit. I didn’t feel anything, but that doesn’t really matter—with this much adrenaline pumping, you can be dead for a while without even realizing it. I look to be okay.

I holster the pistol, wipe my eyes, and continue on my way.


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