I siege my palm into the side of his forearm and turn my face to bail out, but a boom GLOCKs within my mouth and the bullet pierces the inside of my left cheek.
I thrust his wrist away and the nozzle lubes out of my mouth. And on the floor smokes a bullet-sized cigarette burn puddling with my blood. And the vomit buckets from my mouth and defecates through the hole punch in my cheek onto the fake tile.
I kneel and tackle Spyder into the armoire, which rattles above us and inside its top shelf, China tilts off display stands to shatter around us. My palms plant onto his chest.
“STOP THIS,” I yell.
Spyder has his eyes closed so my throw up only speckle his eyelids. One drop bursts its pebble form and rivers across the creases of his squinched eyes. He shouts, “I'M GOING TO KILL YOU THEN HUNT YOUR IZZY DOWN AND SKIN THAT LIL' c*nt!”
I hurl my fist into his jaw and his head flicks sideways. UHHG. He throws a ball of knuckles into my gut and more red-streaked brown shotguns from my mouth. I get benched over his head toward the sink, then I roll onto my back.
I glare over the wrinkles of my shirt and capture him kneeling and unfurling his Colt toward me. I arch my back and grope behind it for the revolver. I flourish it from my waistline, his Colt peers off the floor, my thumb joint rolls over the hammer, his index curls around his trigger, PLOW and his left shoulder concusses back, GLOCK and to my left, the foot of the armoire splinters into woodchips. One.
“fu*k,” shouts Spyder. His Timberlands heel into the fake tile and his gun presses against the trauma in his shoulder. His face wincing toward the swivel door, SPYDER hovers his Colt over his knee and sprays GLOCK-GLOCK-GLOCK in my direction. Bullets pellet the floor where I sat, but I'm already around the edge of the armoire with my back glued to the wall.
“STOP IT STOP IT.”
GLOCK-GLOCK, and THWACK-THWACK as the steel teeth chop into the floor before my feet. Has Izzy heard the shots?
I lurch forward, spot Spyder propped on his left elbow and pressing his piece against the leak in his shoulder, and I flip the table onto its side for shelter. Crouched behind it and between its legs that jut mid-air, I say, “Give me another chance! I'll k** him I'll k** him I'll do it. BUT ENOUGH.”
GROAN. And the scuffle of his Timberlands sliding underneath him. My barrel's shivering between my eyes. f** you for leaving, Grandpa. If I'm gone, what'll happen to Izzy?
HMPH. He got up. And my palm perspires against the stock of my six-shooter, and has Izzy heard the shots?
STOMP Stomp stomp as the Timberlands rush away, then the EEYORE of the swivel door. And it's done. He left.
BUT IZZY, HE MUST BE GOING FOR IZZY.