Leslie Langtry - I Shot You Babe

I thoroughly disapprove of duels. If a man should challenge me, I would take him kindly and forgivingly by the hand and lead him to a quiet place and kill him.

MARK TWAIN

Okay. Stop me if youve heard this before. A pro football player walks into a bar. He falls to the floor clutching his head in pain and says, I didnt see that coming. True story. Although maybe, just maybe, it would be more accurate to say the iron rod walked into the football player, but Im telling it my way.

I managed to kick the guy in the ribs as he tried to get up, but one of his enormous hands (which, I assume, can only have made him good at his sport) grabbed my ankle and pulled me down to join him on the floor. It was at this point that he seemed to gain the upper hand. The lumbering side o beef with legs climbed on top of me, bouncing my head off the cement twice. This did nothing for my self-esteem and probably wasnt good for the rugged attractiveness women told me I had. Did you know you actually do see stars when your head is pummeled against something so unyielding as concrete? I know, it seems too cartoonish, but then, there it is.

I distracted my target by biting his forearm. Im not fond of biting, but in this business, you have to think quickly. As he screamed, I punched him in the throat, and he crumpled over like a stack of dimes. With Vic (as in, my victim) facedown, I climbed on top and began my choke hold. Frankly, I was tired of using a choke hold. So overdone, and not terribly elegant.

Vic struggled to get free, but unfortunately for him, he was losing strength. To my surprise, he got lucky and managed to flail out, catching me (quite to his surprise) in the gut with his elbow. I dropped him and he scrambled backward until he hit the wall.

I walked toward him slowly (for dramatic effect, of course). The bastard wasnt going anywhere. Stupid athlete. They always think they can handle themselves in a fight. It was true that he was much larger than me. But it was also true that, because of this fact, hed never really had to fight before. For his first actual battle, he was literally fighting for his lifea brilliant irony I thought would likely be wasted on him.

My fist hit him square in the face, and he slid down the wall. Through the gurgling blood coursing from his nose into his mouth just seconds before I sent the broken shards of his nose piercing into his brain, he asked, Who are you?

Bombay. Coney Island Bombay. Actually, you can call me Cy. I go by Coney only when Im working as a carney. Most of the time I prefer eliminating the middle three letters from my name. Its kind of like what I really do, which is eliminating bad people.

That might sound a bit simplistic. Sorry about that. But there really is no point in analyzing it any further. I know this because I have a Ph.D. in philosophy and it has driven me to distraction most of my life. It is possible to overthink things now and then. After all, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

This, however, isnt one of those times. This time, the cigar is more than it seems. The rather ugly, large cigar of which I speak (who now lay lifeless on his basement floor) was a popular sports figure who ran an illegal white slave trade on the side. Ive never been much of a sports fan. It seems wrong to me that professional athletes make millions of dollars when scientists trying to cure cancer and teachers educating children live from check to check. This gig was my own small contribution toward evening things out. You know, the old yin-yang thing.

My vic was a professional football player whod invested in an Eastern European slaver. The slaver sent young women all over the world to work as prostitutes. I use the past tense because I took care of that bastard a couple of days ago. The athlete was quick to join him in death. It wasnt pretty. And honestly, I dont feel too bad about that.

Most of the Bombays tend to maintain a low profile when it comes to wet work. Making murder look like an accident seems to make them feel better. I dont really go that route. My preferred modus operandi is to actually make it appear to be foul play. And if you knew how bad these people were, youd probably agree with me.

Two days later, the police and media seemed to think the Russian Mafia was responsible, and when the evidence I left behind revealed his crimes, Vics jersey and status were yanked from the Pro Football Hall of Fame. My mother and the rest of the Bombay Council were pleased. Dad, an Aussie, had to call to remind me that technically my vic didnt play real football. But thats Pop, always splitting hairs.

My family history is interesting, in a bloodthirsty sort of way. The Bombays have cornered the market on international assassination for hire since ancient Greece. Every infant born with Bombay blood becomes a killer. We begin training at age five and progress from there. There is no way out. Once you are born a Bombay, your fate is sealed. No one rebels unless they have a suicide wish. Occasionally, someone does. What can I say? Every family has at least one idiot. Doesnt yours?

The football job took place in Chicago, and a few days later I was in Omaha. The alarm went off at six a.m., and I sat up on the edge of my bed, running my hands through my hair. You might think Im a morning person. Nothing could be further from the truth. Im actually more of a discipline guy. I get up to make myself functional. The exercise that follows is simply for masochistic purposes. Ive been told Im in excellent shape. Its the discipline thing.

Wheek! Wheek! came the brain-splitting cry of my guinea pig, Sartre. The minute I wake up, she reminds me that its time for breakfast. Shes affectionate and sweet, but Ive always suspected that she considers me to be little more than a servant.

Here you are, I said as I placed a small dish of strawberries, collard greens and baby carrots in front of her. Sartre grunted and began her feast. I walked to the door of my trailer to get the paper.

When Im on the road (which is pretty much always), I like to park my RV in Wal-Mart parking lots. They seem to have a camper cult following. At every one Ive been to, theres a newspaper at my door in the morning and fresh coffee ready before the shoppers arrive. I like that. Its a nice touch.

Opening the door revealed a bright, late August. I scooped up the paper and nodded to the older woman standing in the parking lot across from me. It was then that I realized I hadnt put any clothes on. Huh. I shut the door behind me (but not before winking at the lady) and, after tossing the paper on a chair, threw on some running clothes. Ten minutes later, I opened the door to find her and several other women standing in the same place. I dont know what they hoped to see, but clearly my having clothes on had been a bit of a buzz kill. Just for fun I grinned and shouted, Gday, ladies, with an Australian accent (something I inherited from Dad). That seemed to do the trick. I believe one actually fainted.