Below The Fold

Thank god for cheap rum

The light bulb over my shoulder exploded. Hot, tiny shards of glass bounced off the back of my head and neck, and I dropped to the ground and rolled behind a case of scotch. I looked up, and saw the Cutty Sark insignia burst as another bullet pierced through the side of the carton, ripping through the ship like a cannonball.

Something about dying under a box of well scotch really pissed me off then, and I rolled to the right and fired off the rest of my clip. Twenty feet away, bottles of Jamieson popped like firecrackers as the cheap whisky dribbled on to the floor. I continued to roll until I stopped behind a stack of boxes with “151″ written on the side.

Does this guy buy any decent liquor? I caught myself thinking as I fished another clip out from the inside pocket of my jacket. The mix of gun powder and booze smelled vaguely comforting as I slid the clip into the butt of my Zig Hauer. Another shot rang out and the wall behind me chipped as the bullet ricocheted off somewhere.

I heard a sound from further to my left, and I arched my back around the carton to try and catch a glimpse of what it was without exposing myself.

I miscalculated.

A violent shock of electricity billeted through the top of my shoulder, and my hand clenched involuntarily. I’d been shot before during the Shelby Moran case—a case that cost me much more dearly than just the scar I carry around on the right side of my stomach. I could still remember seeing her body bent at all those weird angles, that shock of blonde hair that seemed to just float on the bloody puddle…

I slapped myself in the face. The bullet must’ve hit a vein or something, because I was drifting too fast. I needed to end this now, or I wasn’t going to be walking out of here. I turned again, much more cautiously, and saw the shadow framed from the light cascading from the open door. I caught myself thinking how easy it would be to wax this prick if I just had a fuckin’ grenade. How easy this would be if it was Ecuador, and I was still in the corp, and this was some caballero with too much blow in his blood to realize he’d cornered himself at the wrong end of the wrath of a goddamned U.S. Motherfucking Marine. And then I thought of the barracks, and Berke and Creighton and Scollaro and his fuckin’ Sunday gravy and the way Halburton used to douse himself in that godawful Canoe Canoe, and that crappy “moonshine” he tried to make that nearly blew up the entire fuckin’…

And finally I realized what it was my brain was trying to tell me. I ripped open the side of the carton of 151 and pulled out a bottle. I tore off the sleeve of my right arm, and almost cried like a baby as the fabric rubbed over the wound. I tore the top off the bottle and poured the vodka all over the sleeve.

I shot a glance over my shoulder and squeezed a shot off to keep him honest. Then, I put the sleeve edge into the end of the bottle.

I pulled my zippo out and flicked it open. Blood splattered my face with the motion, and I looked down and saw how much blood had pooled around me and I realized that I was fucked. Well, I figured, at least I’d bring him with me.

I lit the sleeve and it went up without a hitch.

I turned, and as the bastard stood to fire, I threw the bottle at his head.

He ducked, and I think he thought he was safe for a split second, but then the bottle exploded and a fire storm of burning rum rained down on his head.

He screamed and burst out from his hiding nook for the door. I didn’t even have to aim. I barley drew a bead and he was down.

The smell of burning flesh was oddly comforting. I climbed to my feet, a bit too shakily for my taste, and leaned against the case of booze. I pulled my last cigarette out from the wrinkled pack of camel lights in my right jacket pocket. I staggered over to where he lay, already roasting before he even got to hell.

“That’s it, Doyle, you cocksucker. This case is closed.”

I knelt down and lit my cigarette off of his burning carcass. I heard the sirens getting louder, even as the darkness started to creep in around the edges of my vision. I stood up, almost passed out, shook off the cobwebs and staggered out into the daylight. It was already warm out, and today…

…Today was going to be a fucking beautiful day.