He was waiting for me.
I’d gone to visit a friend of mine who lived close to the marina. When I entered her house by the back door, as I was wont to do, I found him sitting at the dining table. Marissa, the young woman I’d come to see, lay dead on the floor.
She hadn’t died well.
The man grinned at me and nudged the body.
“I was told Duncan Blood comes in by the back,” the man stated in a long, languid accent.
“That’s a fact,” I nodded, my hands resting on the Colts.
“She only told me after I’d removed those foul lumps on her chest.” The man chuckled. “She should have thanked me. They were tremendously heavy. I cannot imagine she enjoyed having them attached to her. She reminded me of a cow out to pasture, udders swinging left and right with no apparent purpose in this world.”
“That a fact?” I asked.
He gestured with a large bowie knife. “It is indeed.”
I watched him for a moment, getting a feel for the way he moved his knife.
“She had some other unnecessary baggage beneath that pretty petticoat, too,” he began, and I drew the Colts.
The revolvers flew out of their holsters, the guns thundering as he tried to move.
I wasn’t trying to kill him, though, and he learned that the hard way.
A bullet shattered the back of one hand, knocking the blade to the floor. The second round caught him in his manhood and freed him of that title.
The last few shots slammed into his knees.
The man’s agonized screams filled the air, but it was no use.
When the police came and learned it was me, they would turn their heads and feign ignorance. They knew better than to interfere.
The man in front of me babbled incoherently, and I didn’t care.
Instead, I walked up to him, holstered my Colts and drew my own knife.
“Now,” I whispered, leaning in close. “Let’s see what you don’t need anymore.”
He screamed, and I nodded.
“Lips it is,” I remarked and began to cut them away.