Compliments of The Oldest Living Middle-Aged Writer
Murray was in a dark, dank warehouse crouching at the end of an aisle in a sea of cardboard boxes. Upstairs, drugs were being bought and sold. Blocking the exit downstairs, 50 feet from Murray, was a tall, determined man with a large gun. The only thing on Murray’s side was the element of surprise.
It was middle of the night for Murray, but middle of the day for me. I had errands to do and his dilemma would have to wait to be resolved. So I left him there in the back of my mind while I sallied forth to the grocery store.
I envy the prolific writer whose typewriter spews page after page of witty dialogue and tension-filled action sequences. My process involves sticking my arm down my throat, grabbing my heart, and ripping it out of my chest. Then I type a few words on the page. Reread them. Cross a few out. Add a couple, and move on.
Meanwhile, poor Murray was still stuck in the warehouse and he had to get out before the upstairs drug guys finished their meeting and came downstairs. I decided he had true boxing skills that he honed weekly with his friend, Hugo.
But by then I had reached him and hit him with a straight right to his jaw. He was taller than me and my blow slipped slightly south, lacking the impact I’d planned. Robo squared up and I barely had time to block a hook to my gut.
I could see him digging for his gun. I switfly lowered my head, swung it up and left, and shattered his jaw. Robo went down like a big sack of sand.
Then, exhausted, I took a nap.
The Oldest Living Middle-Aged Writer lives in Midwestern flyover country with her dogs. There have been reported sightings of her husband. In between innings of the Cubs game she is working on her web site and can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org.