Churchill the Perp
Crack! Zing! We huddled under the wreckage of the old wooden biplane, me and Bernie, close together. Crack. Kapow. Wood splintered right in front of my eyes. We were trapped down at the bottom of the tiny box canyon, the shooter somewhere high above.
“That quote of Churchill’s,” Bernie said, “the one about there’s nothing more exhilarating than to be fired on without result? Don’t know about you, but I’m not feeling it.”
Churchill? The name was new. Some perp, no doubt. He’ll be wearing an orange jumpsuit and breaking rocks in the hot sun soon enough. Bernie crawled toward a little opening in the wreckage over our heads, the .38 Special in his hand. I crawled right beside him. We were quiet as mice, whatever that means. In my experience … but maybe a story for another time.
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