“Don’t shoot!”
Two men shove me in a desolate New York alley. They don’t bother with ski masks like most assassins.
“Shut up!” the fat one cries. “Just shut up! Let’s get this over with.”
The other one, the short one, drives the barrel of his .45 into my forehead. He makes the mistake of looking me in the eyes. He looks long enough for me to catch their color: brown. To calculate his breaths per minute: 16. To notice he has not one but four black teeth hidden in his overgrown beard.
“I can’t do it Benny,” he says looking away.
The fat one grabs the gun. “Give me that.”
“Wait,” I say. I put my hand on the gun and everyone freezes. “It’s not what you think it is.”
“Don’t listen to him. We have plenty of proof you’re a buffalo humper.” He jerks his hand away and points the gun at me again. “We know the legend. Seven years of good luck for spilling your blood.”
“But there’s one piece you’re missing.” I wait for his trigger finger to relax before continuing. “I’ll tell you a little-known fact about buffalo humpers.”
The men look at each other. The short one looks like he’s going to lose control, and whether it would be of his bladder or dinner, I couldn’t say.
“Not everyone you kill gives you luck. You have to do it the right way.”
“This is garbage,” the fat one grumbles.
“No! Listen, a whole family was murdered in Alabama a few years back. Did the murderer get lucky? Or is he sitting in prison waiting for the electric chair.” I don’t wait for a response. “He’s sitting in a concrete cell eating cold oatmeal. If he’s lucky. Excuse my pun.”
“He could still get lucky.”
“But is it worth the risk?” I argue. “Good fortune doesn’t just magically fall upon you right when you kill a Mitowan Indian. You could find yourselves running from the law, arrested, put on trial, and live out the rest of your lives without seeing the sun again waiting on luck that isn’t coming.”
The short one gulps. “If we don’t kill you the right way.”
I nod and grin. “That’s right. You’re catching on.”
They hesitate, so I add an extra layer for the sidekick to consider. “Well, if he doesn’t kill me the right way.” I point back to the short one so my message will penetrate to the logical part of his brain buried and lost somewhere deep inside. “You’re a neutral player in this as far as the legend goes, but as far as the NYPD is concerned, you’re an accomplice.”
