Thought Catalog - Cicada, Ladybug (Chapter 18) lyrics

Behind the table, I forge up like a turret over sandbags with the Single Action Army revolver drawn at my hip, just like he taught me. On the other side of the doorway is the red and black of Spyder's back, but this image blears as the swivel door swings through the entrance then mousetraps back. I squeeze, PLOW, the shell punctures the door, leaving a new peep hole, two. Without uncurling my trigger finger, I fan my left palm over the hammer, ticking it back, and PLOW, three, never relenting, PLOW PLOW PLOW, four, five, six. I watch the red and black topple forward on the other side. Then the swivel door creaks to a stop, flush with the doorway. “SPYDER?” I can't see into the living room anymore. Not even through the five charred holes. I round the legs of the table poking sideways, pa** the cabinet—ceramic triangles CRRRing under my boot heels—and sleuth to the door. “SPYDER?” My handgun's forward, empty-chambered and fuming a Cowboy's cologne. What'll I do if he's alive? I'm out. I smoosh my shoulder against the wall alongside the doorway like an officer ready to raid the room. “SPYDER?” You could have hit him in the thighs and he's fine. f**. How many did he shoot? 7? fu*k. Out the kitchen window, the white winner rests in the stadium, victorious, but lingering to die. “SPYYYYYDER?” EEYORE, and I enter the living room.