goes right the way through it. Boil it for at least five hours, seven would be better. Then you shove the whole thing up your pussy and pull out the bone. That should do you for another twenty years." Bishman was already laughing before he finished the joke and the guard wasn't far behind him. Tears were trickling down their cheeks.
"More coffee?"
"Yeah, I'll force one," said Bishman, getting out his cigarettes again.
"Is that a .38 Smith and Wesson?" asked Bishman enthusiastically, pointing to the gun in the security guard's hip holster. "We call those Saturday Night Specials where I come from."
"Yeah, it sure is. You know something about guns then?" The guard poured coffee into two cups and pushed one towards Bishman.
"Sure I know a bit. I've owned over a hundred and fifty guns in my time, so they're like second nature to me. Mind if I take a look?"
"Sure, there ya go. Don't fire the fucker though. That's all we need." The guard took the gun from its holster and handed it to Bishman.
Bishman deftly flicked open the chamber, six bullets, clicked it back, spun the chamber, satisfied himself he had a perfect working specimen in his hand. The guard watched, fascinated. Here was someone who obviously knew what he was doing. Bishman lined up an imaginary target in the middle distance, his arm extended, his eyes fixing themselves, bugging out with concentration. Slowly, slowly, he brought his arm round, in a 90 degree arc as if he was lining up a moving target, until it was poi nting directly above the guard' s head . Slowly and carefully he brought his a rm down to chest height.
The guard had only an instant to recognize the danger he was in, his face only briefly flickering with fear, before Bishman let him have six slugs at point blank range, his body jerking like a marionette. He died instantly, a crumpled heap face-up, spilt coffee steaming off his coat. Six neat holes meant that remarkably quickly there was a large pool of incredibly dark red blood. Very quickly too the color drained from his face. He looked like an ugly ghost. Apelike.
Bishman bent down and fumbled through his pockets. He knew there had to be a car outside although he hadn't seen it. He found the keys in the pocket in his pants, not the jacket. Shit! Things are always in the last place you look for them.
Bishman closed the door behind him and went looking for the car. He found it quickly, it was a fire-engine-red Lincoln Continental. He put the key in the door and opened it. JEEEEEZUSSS!!!!!! He got the fright of his life. It was a big German Shepherd , a Schutzhund Three attack dog, and as soon as it realized Bishman was not with his master, it went berserk. It jumped out of the car and was all over Bishman before he could close the door. Snapping and biting, growling, frothing, lips curled back, Bishman was getting pinned down. He thought he was going to die. He tried to protect himself but the dog kept tearing at his arms. Flashing its teeth and snapping furiously, this dog was not going to quit. This is a professionally trained attack dog, no doubt about that, thought Bishman. Fuck! I'm gonna die, get killed by a lousy fuckin' dog. No way, Jose. Boogaloo.
With the strength and determination of a desperate man, Bishman forced his arm deep into the dog's mouth, jammed it there and grabbed hold of the root of his tongue for good measure. He then sank his teeth into the dog's nose and bit it clean off. You should have heard that dog yelp. It ran off, all the fight had gone out of it. It whimpered, yelped and yowled. Bishman spat out the dog's nose thinking, pick the bones outta that ya bastard, spat again to get rid of the blood and the salty taste, and lit a cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth.
Bishman was in agony. Both his forearms felt like they were on fire. He fired up the Lincoln and drove like hell, spinning its wheels all the way out of the yard and a good fifty yards down the road. He nearly overshot the junction, his adrenalin
"More coffee?"
"Yeah, I'll force one," said Bishman, getting out his cigarettes again.
"Is that a .38 Smith and Wesson?" asked Bishman enthusiastically, pointing to the gun in the security guard's hip holster. "We call those Saturday Night Specials where I come from."
"Yeah, it sure is. You know something about guns then?" The guard poured coffee into two cups and pushed one towards Bishman.
"Sure I know a bit. I've owned over a hundred and fifty guns in my time, so they're like second nature to me. Mind if I take a look?"
"Sure, there ya go. Don't fire the fucker though. That's all we need." The guard took the gun from its holster and handed it to Bishman.
Bishman deftly flicked open the chamber, six bullets, clicked it back, spun the chamber, satisfied himself he had a perfect working specimen in his hand. The guard watched, fascinated. Here was someone who obviously knew what he was doing. Bishman lined up an imaginary target in the middle distance, his arm extended, his eyes fixing themselves, bugging out with concentration. Slowly, slowly, he brought his arm round, in a 90 degree arc as if he was lining up a moving target, until it was poi nting directly above the guard' s head . Slowly and carefully he brought his a rm down to chest height.
The guard had only an instant to recognize the danger he was in, his face only briefly flickering with fear, before Bishman let him have six slugs at point blank range, his body jerking like a marionette. He died instantly, a crumpled heap face-up, spilt coffee steaming off his coat. Six neat holes meant that remarkably quickly there was a large pool of incredibly dark red blood. Very quickly too the color drained from his face. He looked like an ugly ghost. Apelike.
Bishman bent down and fumbled through his pockets. He knew there had to be a car outside although he hadn't seen it. He found the keys in the pocket in his pants, not the jacket. Shit! Things are always in the last place you look for them.
Bishman closed the door behind him and went looking for the car. He found it quickly, it was a fire-engine-red Lincoln Continental. He put the key in the door and opened it. JEEEEEZUSSS!!!!!! He got the fright of his life. It was a big German Shepherd , a Schutzhund Three attack dog, and as soon as it realized Bishman was not with his master, it went berserk. It jumped out of the car and was all over Bishman before he could close the door. Snapping and biting, growling, frothing, lips curled back, Bishman was getting pinned down. He thought he was going to die. He tried to protect himself but the dog kept tearing at his arms. Flashing its teeth and snapping furiously, this dog was not going to quit. This is a professionally trained attack dog, no doubt about that, thought Bishman. Fuck! I'm gonna die, get killed by a lousy fuckin' dog. No way, Jose. Boogaloo.
With the strength and determination of a desperate man, Bishman forced his arm deep into the dog's mouth, jammed it there and grabbed hold of the root of his tongue for good measure. He then sank his teeth into the dog's nose and bit it clean off. You should have heard that dog yelp. It ran off, all the fight had gone out of it. It whimpered, yelped and yowled. Bishman spat out the dog's nose thinking, pick the bones outta that ya bastard, spat again to get rid of the blood and the salty taste, and lit a cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth.
Bishman was in agony. Both his forearms felt like they were on fire. He fired up the Lincoln and drove like hell, spinning its wheels all the way out of the yard and a good fifty yards down the road. He nearly overshot the junction, his adrenalin
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