His shirt is stiff and rough per neatness and quality, he itches his chest through the buttons. He takes the starch filled over-shirt to expose his white v-neck. Eyes rolling, his nose flares and his eyes get large; green and glazed over, eyelids dropped like curtains in an attempt to block out the sun; however this action is unintentional and symbolizes the lack of healthy rest he has been subjected too. He is amused with himself; these small treasures are still shiny in these situations. Facial expressions, even if no one is there to witness them, feel silly upon the face. His gun is silver but lacks the luster that his self-amusement brings; this item carries metal bullets, that of which bring death to anything unfortunate enough to cross its path, hardly sparkling when compared to innocent playthings.
He sits in a room close to a patio with a clear colored drink dangling almost out of his fingertips. He has not yet decided what to do. He is going fast. Something searches, or he believes that something is searching, he knows. He has not talked to anyone and no one will talk to you him. That is hardly a hint of being chased; however, in this lifestyle he has to remain prepared. He is sitting in a chair, fixated and praying for a stoic composure. The sun is blinding. The climate is hot and his light colored attire is appropriate but useless in comparison to the humidity.
The gunshots still haunt his mind even though they existed only in his dreams. He knows what is coming and he knows he cannot avoid it. He is most certainly alone. No family to call for words of wisdom. He waits patiently.
The waves crash on the beach in the distance. Seagulls bask in the sun collecting fish and eating them on the sand, a seagull picnics with some crabs. Under the sea is playing in the distance.
A doorbell rings. The glass drops to the floor spilling the contents and saturating the floor.
When it is cold it is not snowing, yet when it warms up it snows. I have no idea which way is worse, the snow or the cold, but I know I wish I were where he is minus the situation. He wishes for cold times because at least then he could sleep in his bed as opposed to a bed that is as familiar as a taxi driver in a foreign city. He prays for home again.
That glass is not broken. Still, a solid fixture whichever way you look at it; solid or liquid it remains in one piece, above other one pieces-es that remain intact signifying architectural importance.
He is bent on his legs hunched over his heels, with the agility of a tiger in heat and the fierceness of a drunk-girlfriend who has just found compromising text messages, of which he has no idea of how they got there (???). Hands in the air, guilty look on face, fucked. This is flexibility at its finest, every yoga instructor out there is jealous. Namaste.
The door is miraculously off of its hinges instantly with hardly a sound, and mostly flattened to the ground. Gunshots are heard a few blocks down, he hears nothing. A mother grabs her child and runs for cover; trimmed hedges neatly groomed weeks before provide a makeshift trench for mother and child. He runs for cover too. The light is bold as it enters the room in unison with the intruders. The uninvited come as no surprise; they are not trained professionals, but rather, innately birthed for this very moment. He is fucked. Had they not been born of fascist elitists with unfathomable amounts of power and money he might have had a chance, they have everything that resembles war and then what comes with that: Funerals.
Three guns jump through the door and there is silence. He merely blinks and the two doors in front of him look as good as the gates of heaven, he just may have to go through hell to reach them. He is behind a couch in front of the uninvited and across from two doors. He can hear footsteps and has not yet located the precise location of his maker. We know more than he does. He can’t believe they have just found him. It has been weeks since he has done anything remotely traceable, not a single trip to the store undisguised and no guests. This thought is singular only until he hears a beep, then a cellular ring tone. He has been located. He has nothing to relieve himself of those seeking him; the buyers are in it for blood and that is the only amenity that he has to offer. He will not sell this item. Store closed.
As he lunges forward he lowers and sights his metallic hell-maker at the buyers, he then reaches at his phone and in an assault of bullets, debris, couch cushions, glass, clear drink, explosions, and ripping out of wall panels, blood splatters, he flips his phone open, “Hello”.
Its no other than his imagination texting him to tell him that he is just sitting in his 2nd story apartment complex in downtown Minneapolis freezing his ass off, too bored to go on Facebook; however, not bored enough to write a story about a spy shootout that has not happened and never will happen. Something he knows nothing about and the pretentiousness of which has concerned him enough to think about not publishing it. And who types in 3rd person? Fuck, I got to get a new hobbie.