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Deborah.

     I stepped up to the cashier’s position at the front desk.

      Holding a damp washcloth to my swollen, broken nose, with one hand, I held up my safety deposit box key with the other.  Cute, redheaded Deborah glanced up at me from her desk, spotted the key, smiled and nodded.  She then opened up a box containing safety deposit cards; found my card, stood and handed the card to me.

     Presently, I’m quite the sight, dear reader.  Blood has dripped down the front of my beige pullover, my left eye has swollen completely shut, and the washcloth barely conceals my broken nose.

     Picking up a pen from its holder, I filled out the card, as Deborah developed a concern with my appearance and asked, “Are you alright, Mr. Chisholm?”

     Becoming embarrassed, I shrugged and replied, “Yeah, Debby, I’m okay.  It’s s-stupid really...I slipped in the bathroom and hit the floor.”

     Frowning, Deborah then asked, “Would you like to see the hotel’s doctor?”

     Caught off-guard, I mumbled in reply, “Oh...God no.  It’s nothing that s-serious.”

     Still concerned, petite Deborah took my card and key; then retired to the backroom where all the safety deposit boxes were kept.

     Having a free interval, I turned my back to the front desk, and scanned my surroundings.  There couldn’t have been more than ten guests milling round the lobby.

     Off to my left, maybe 15 feet away stood Danielle, with her outsized leather bag slung on a shoulder, trying to look nonchalant, as if she belonged there.

     Directly in front of me stood the massive Egyptian, also at 15 feet; watching me as a hungry hawk would; not giving a damn for pretending to fit in.  And then there was the Saudi to my right, not six feet away, practically drooling on me with anticipation for what I had in the safety deposit box.

     All of my possible escape routes, dear reader, were effectively blocked by the three of them.  I was pinned down to the front desk’s counter.

     Deborah returned with my safety deposit box.  I turned to face her as she set the box on the counter.  It’s a huge metal box at five inches deep, six inches across, and a foot in length.  Before opening the box, I told her, “Thanks, Debby.  W-Would you mind also totaling up my bill?  I may be c-checking out later.”

     Deborah smiled up at me and cheerfully replied, “Certainly, Mr. Chisholm.”

     I deliberately waited until Deborah moved to the back room, sat at the computer there, and began typing.  Now, hopefully she’ll be safe, dear reader, from what’s about to transpire.

     Before opening the box, I dropped the washcloth on the counter, and then carefully opened the metal box’s lid.  Slipping my right hand inside the box, nearly up to my elbow, I commenced a little act; deliberately fumbling with the awkward box.  Rotating the box onto its side as I struggled, I turned to the Saudi and extended it towards him; bringing the box’s back plate level with his chest.  At which point I asked him, “C-Could you please help me?”

     Eagerly, he actually took two steps towards me, but then froze as our eyes locked.  Abruptly the Saudi’s eyes went very wide with fear - reminding me of a dear caught in the headlights - as the realization took hold of him...he was FUCKED!

     At that precise moment I pulled the trigger.  In blinding fractions of a second a deafening report thundered in the lobby, as a .45 caliber bullet punched through the thin metal of the box’s back plate, and buried itself dead-center into the Saudi’s chest.  The bullet’s impact flipped the Saudi over on his back, causing him to release his grip on the manila envelope containing the $30,000.

     Dropping my right arm to my side, the metal box slipped off and clattered to the marble floor, revealing a smoking, battered, used Colt .45 semiautomatic clenched in my fist.  The item I had previously purchased, at the pawnshop in China Town, earlier that morning with my sadly beat-up VISA card.

Heavy .45 Cartridges. I shot the one on the left with the full-metal jacket. 

     In a flash the monstrous Egyptian was on me!  I blocked his knife with my left forearm, but as I felt its blade cut flesh, muscle and bone, I angled my .45 upward from the hip and jerked the trigger in an attempt to plant a bullet in his heart!  Unfortunately...I missed!

     As my .45 roared, making me deaf, its heavy bullet ripped under the Egyptian’s chin and out the top-aft portion of his skull!  An exploding fountain of blood, brain matter, skull fragments and hair sprayed across the highly polished marble floor behind him.

     I also received a dose of blood spatter, as the outsized slug ended its journey in the grand chandelier above and beyond us; causing minute-sparkling glass shards to also rain on the floor.

     Immediately transforming to a mammoth, 225-pound, rubber dummy, the Egyptian collapsed atop me, forcing me to shove him to the floor.  The “Gypo” sprawled out on his left side still gripping his fighting knife; its blade dripping with my blood.

     From somewhere across the lobby a woman uncorked a blood curdling scream, as hotel guests and staff evacuated the lobby in all directions!  Deborah, I’m relieved to say, led the stampede totally intact.

     Cradling the .45 in both hands, I swung it onto Danielle, as blood dripped from my cut forearm.  She has dumped her bulky, leather dancers’ bag on the floor, and is squatting over it, desperately attempting to pull something out that’s snagged inside the bag.  Danielle glances up at me; our eyes lock.

     I shook my head in the negative; I don’t want to shoot her.  So I tell her, “Walk away, Danielle...j-just walk away.  Please...”

     I lined the Colt’s sights up on Danielle’s right eye.  Her arresting eyes are the deepest-striking blue I’ve ever seen.  The object she’s pulling on came free.  She glanced to her left at the Saudi...then back at me.  At that instant her eyes narrowed – becoming two lumps of blue ice – Danielle had made up her mind.

     Danielle jerked out a Ruger .22 with silencer – it spat!

     I felt the small caliber bullet bite into my left side, above the hip.  In reflex I jerked the trigger on my Colt!  Once again I missed the target!

     Danielle’s perfectly sculpted nose imploded instead, as the back of her skull erupted; showering the marble floor in a raspberry mist bearing chunks!  While the .45 bullet ricocheted off the floor and buried itself in an overstuffed couch.

     Danielle snapped backwards; sounding much like a wet sucker cup as the rear of her ventilated head impacted the cold marble floor!

     At that exact point in time, there was a “Pop” off to my right, as a 7.65mm bullet’s shockwave passed underneath my nose!  It smashed a Ming vase on the front desk’s counter behind me; causing shards, water and lilies to rain on the counter and floor.

     Swinging my Colt to the right, the view I discovered completely stunned me.

     What I thought was the “dead” Saudi, dear reader, is now up on one knee!  He has ripped open his singlet and dress shirt, revealing the pancaked .45 bullet had been captured by a dark-blue bulletproof vest!  Holy shit-pickles!  It never occurred to me these camel drivers would be wearing body protection! 

     The Saudi aims a smoking Walther PPK at me! 

      Give me a break, dear reader!  Is this guy a James Bond wanna be? 

     He’s also rattled – judging by his wobbling pistol’s short barrel – impairing his accuracy.

     I lined up my Colt’s sights on the Saudi’s right eye.

     Nevertheless, before I can fire, the Saudi gets off another shot!  Abruptly the back of my right hand and wrist feels as though they’ve been hit with a baseball bat; knocking the gun from my hand!

     Later, dear reader, I’d discover the Saudi’s 7.65mm bullet had creased the back of my right hand and buried itself in my wrist. 

     Instantly dropping to my right knee, I attempted to pick up the Colt with my numb, useless right hand.  Quickly realizing this won’t work, I snatched at the Colt with my left hand – only blood from my forearm has reached this hand – the Colt slipped out of my hand.

     While this is going on the Saudi fires again!  But because I had without delay dropped to the floor, I feel his bullet snap over my bald head; fracturing a front desk tile behind me.

     Latching onto the Colt with a death-grip, I immediately flattened to my belly and rolled left three times.  The Saudi fired again!  His bullet struck a marble floor tile I’ve just vacated; barely missing me!

     Propping up on my elbows, supporting the Colt with my useless, bloody right hand, I lined up the gun’s sights on the Saudi’s right eye, and start squeezing off a round with my bloody left index finger.

     Conversely, before the Saudi can fire again; he’s distracted.  Way off to the right and beyond us, some idiot yells “HEY!”

     Now I ask you, dear reader, what imbecile would ever interrupt a gunfight by purposely attracting attention to himself?  And here’s where it got really freaky.

     As the Saudi snapped his head to his left - to see who had yelled “HEY!” – my Colt fired!  Making me go deaf again, and, as usual, I missed what I was aiming for!

     Even so, on the plus side, I saw my big .45 bullet enter the Saudi’s right ear!  And at that same precise fraction of time, way across the lobby, my eye also registered a puff of marble dust as that same bullet fractured a tile!

     In future, dear reader, forensics would inform me my bullet was a through and through on the Saudi; literally going in one ear and out the other.  Freaky!

     Being violently disconnected from his life; the Saudi collapsed face down on top of his James Bond, Walther PPK semiautomatic.  He never moved again under his own power.

     Remaining on my belly, I also become curious, dear reader.  Who was this mental-giant that yelled “Hey!”           

     Looking to my right, way across the lobby, I uncover a solitary hotel security guard.  He’s a white male, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with a buzz-cut, wearing a Parc 55 green blazer and grey slacks.  The poor kid is also sheet white, and trembles as he grips a huge ring of keys with both hands; he appears as though he’s going to pee his pants.

     In order to get him to relax, and being genuinely apologetic for all the bloodshed and mayhem I’ve caused in the Parc 55’s pristine lobby, I lamely said to the guard, “S-Sorry about all the mess.”

     Seeing that my apology is having little effect on this frightened kid, I deliberately laid my Colt on the polished marble floor, and held up both of my bloody hands.  Indicating I offered him no threat whatsoever.  Afterwards I said, “C-Could you help me out, buddy?”

     The security guard hesitated.  By the look in his eyes, I observed the gears in his brain grinding away; attempting to assimilate the gunfight he’s recently witnessed - my words - and the possibility of more gunplay.  After a very pregnant pause, he at last nodded in the affirmative.

     Prompting me to say, “G-Grab the nearest phone and c-call the local FBI Field Office.  Tell them al-Qa’ida has shot up your lobby, and to g-get their ass over here before the local cops arrive and screw up the c-crime scene.”  As an afterthought, I added, “Can you r-remember all of that?”

     Once again the kid needed a moment to absorb all of this. However, at length he finally nodded in the affirmative.

     Causing me to say, “Well, don’t j-just stand there.  Snap your dick!”

     Having that bit of encouragement, the young guard promptly did an about-face, and vacated the scene at a dead run; jangling his keys all the way.

     Now that all of the distracting excitement had died down, and, besides the recently deceased, I was the sole person occupying the cavernous lobby; I ultimately had the luxury of time to think.  Using my left hand, I painfully pushed myself up to a sitting position, and then examined both of my bloody hands, which were trembling.  Not from fear, but from an adrenalin rush...followed by a feeling of acute euphoria, upon reaching the realization I was still alive!

     And at that juncture, dear reader, I remembered my grandfather, and the long, patient hours he spent with me as a kid, teaching me how to shoot from the hip with both hands.

     This induced me to peruse the crystal chandelier above, and vacantly mutter aloud, “Thank you, Grandpa...wherever the Devil you are.  When it came to guns you really knew your shit.”

     Following this, severe pain began to set in from these items: my broken-bleeding nose, the bullet in my right wrist, my sliced forearm, and the through and through gunshot to my left side, which drenched the lower half of my pullover in blood.  Plus, to top it all off, I was seeing everything with only one eye, as my left eye was swollen shut, impairing my depth perception.

     After taking in this inventory, my euphoria left me, as a monumental dose of depression set in. 

     For it then hit me, dear reader, I had cheated the program.  I was supposed to die in this gunfight; avoiding the no doubt cancerous tumor in my brain from killing me slowly, and painfully.  Well, monkey-nuts, Buckaroos!  Once again I’ve screwed the pooch!

     I picked up the Colt, with my bloody-slippery left hand, shoved it inside the waist band of my Levi’s, and pushed myself backwards using my left hand and rump, until I could rest my back against the front desk’s marble façade.

     I slipped out the Colt as I scrutinized the Saudi, the Egyptian and Danielle.  All three lay in pools of their own blood; apparently their hearts continued pumping blood for a while to their brain-dead bodies.  The recognition of which made me feel sick...and morally unclean. 

     Satisfied all were in their original prone positions, and appeared quite deceased, I laid the Colt on the floor next to me.

     Returning my line of sight to the Egyptian, I got acutely curious, causing me to butt-walk myself over to him.  He lay on his left side with closed eyes, as rivulets of blood leaked from nose and mouth.  I pried his knife from his right fist, and slid it across the floor well out of reach, just in case he decided to wake up and use it on me.  After that, using my bloody left hand, I tore open his silk-grey singlet and white dress shirt.

     “Well I’ll be damned,” I muttered, as I exposed a dark-blue bulletproof vest; again surprised the ragheads were using body armor.

     I studied the Egyptian’s chiseled features, with freckles and red hair, dear reader, and, although a corpse, I couldn’t resist conversing with him.

     “Ya wanna know s-something, camel-fucker?”  Out of habit, I actually gave him an interlude to reply.  Since his corpse was not responding, I elaborated, ”Now that you’re d-dead...I won’t lie to you.  I was aiming for your heart.  Goddamned good thing I missed.”

     Painfully moving rearward, until reaching the front desk’s facade, once again I used it as a backrest, while attempting to apply pressure on the gunshot wound in my side.  It was still bleeding, and the pain it produced made me gaze at Danielle.

     She lay on her back, her black-leather encased body tight and perfect, contrasting beautifully against a glossy-crimson pool of her blood.  The startling beauty of which took me by surprise.  That is until I took in the details of her nose cavity and mouth seeping blood, with startled, cornflower blue eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, and the .22 Ruger lying next to her.

     Then I began conversing with Danielle’s corpse, dear reader.         

     “Goddamn you!” I exclaimed. “Why did you have to be such a s-stubborn little bitch?  All you had to do was walk away...”

                         Danielle performing at the O’Farrell Theater.                            

     At that point it finally sank in, dear reader.  How could I have possibly wasted such an incredibly beautiful creature?  The realization of which caused me to weep bitterly; with shame.

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