The Long Weekend
And then I said to the unhappy man with the fried chicken leg in his left hand and the Smith & Wesson snub nose in his right: "You talkin to me bub?"
Well, yes, I know, cheesy and not very original, but it just came out. The man stopped chewing chicken briefly before he shrugged and pulled the trigger eight deliberate times - a bite of chicken, blam!; another bite of chicken, blam! - the chicken grease getting on his chin. How rude, I thought, staring at the ceiling lights; sixty one years old and I'm shot dead in an Oakland BART station over a lapse of manners: five bullets in the stomach; 3 empty clicks of the hammer on spent ammunition. This, I thought, the light growing dim, had not been my plan.
This before seven over breakfast, head as empty as a brown paper bag. I would rather have been done in by a good woman in a comfortable bed, but I was thinking I'd take either one over crossing the street outside and entering my office building again after the long weekend.