All Lives Matter.
When your back's to the wall, that mantra can change real quick.
When your back's to the wall, that mantra can change real quick.
Pistol Pete by Phil Rossi
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Pete picked
a subway car with the highest body count.
Robbed and
beaten by thugs some time between last call and dawn, Pete had the
daylights knocked out of him. The gang members left scars and divots from the stab wounds. Now, he
thought safety in numbers.
Since the
bad luck, Pete plunked down a cashed paycheck in exchange for a firearm. A
black-market snub nose to keep him company on the trains. Pete wasn’t there to
cause trouble or seek revenge. The gun offered protection between the night
shift and his walkup studio.
At each
platform, the nameless came and went until Pete remained alone with two stops
to go. The incoming terminal was a hub where he expected a crowd, even at that
time. It was a bit of a haul. No mad dash between stations on this end of
the subway line.
Before
shoving off, a large man entered the subway car. Army jacket, baggy sweat
pants, colors of a nefarious gang. Pete knew those colors all too well. The
same ones that jumped him last time, grinding his body mass into wolf bait.
Pete could
tell the man was all muscle by the way he strutted around. Once he noticed Pete
as the lone passenger, the man halted and grabbed a seat diagonally across the
aisle.
The train
streaked through a ghost station, turning the car pitch black. Pete tried to
keep his focus, but lost the man's shadow in the dark. The rattles and hums
made it too noisy to trace footsteps.
Pete dipped
his hand into the well of his coat pocket, just in case. Once the lights
returned, the tip of a hunting knife was pointed inches from his eyeball.
"Gimme
your money, and that gold watch too," the man demanded. No trembling in
his hand or voice. This guy was all pro and meant business. The blade remained
stiff as an icicle and big enough to stop a bear.
Pete yanked
the grip of his gun and squeezed the trigger. Fire blasted from the barrel,
torching the man's army jacket. It's the comet, not the tail, one needs to
dodge. Pete's nine grams plowed the man's gut. The gangsta flew in the air and
dropped the knife, arms fanned out in a frozen jumping jack. When he slammed to
the floor, his stiffened frame resembled an upended tarantula.
The train
hissed to a stop and the doors rocked open. Pete bolted from the car and
skirted the crowded platform. Once he turned the corner, screams echoed through
the terminal.
Pulse
sprinting, weak-headed, Pete hustled up the stairwell. He hit the sidewalk on
the fly as police sirens sounded off in the distance. Flashing lights carved
the main drag, all hands racing for the cursed station.
Back in his
apartment, he felt the bones ringing inside his flesh. Pete tried gumming up
the works with shots of Old Crow. The shaking wouldn't stop as he spat the
bourbon back up. The flat turned lopsided as Pete puked a few more times before
falling asleep.
Pete woke up
with a pounding headache, hoping it was the aftershock of a nightmare. The
truth proved him wrong once he checked the chamber of the snub nose. He palmed
that single shell casing with the missing lead.
Busy hunting
down the maniac from last night's shooting, the police were fielding the fire
from all angles. A mob of local citizens, fed up with the violence, had begun marching
for social justice. They carried signs, yelled, and pumped their fists. Traffic
was at a standstill. Police cars searched for Pete.
The mayor held
a press conference. He assured the charged-up crowd and TV land that he wouldn’t
tolerate violence, especially vigilantism.
That's why there's a police force. Fair enough,
but where were they? It's either him or me, Pete thought.
The police
announced a person of interest, beaming out a police sketch. Man, were they
getting warm. Red hot once the media released footage captured on the subway's
video cams. Pete was afraid of running. What if he evaded the police only to be
captured by the mob?
The media
had already proclaimed "Pistol Pete" the criminal and the thug a
victim. If the Boy Scout decided to kick off and die, Pete should be fed to the
dogs. As it stood, Pete was a racist, a menace to society. The star reporting
hadn't gotten to the thug's prison record, gang relations, or the hunting knife
found at the scene.
