demolitions: unless otherwise noted (15 in the mag and 1 in the chamber)
вoyd crowder ([personal profile] demolitions) wrote2015-01-26 08:17 am
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(no subject)

[CW for gun violence, implied death. Items available: semi-automatic handguns, shotgun, fried chicken, Raylan's hat .]

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You're sitting at the dining room table at your dead brother's house that's laid out with a platter of chicken, bowls of mashed potatoes, peas and carrots, a plate of biscuits and a gravy boat. You've already helped yourself to a plate of food and your semi-automatic pistol is lying next to it. You look up to see your old childhood friend, now a Deputy US Marshal, Raylan Givens standing in the doorway, holding a shot-gun by his side. You're expecting him. You pick up your pistol and point it at Raylan. "No shotguns allowed in this dinin' room," you say. Gallows humor, considering how your brother had met his end—plugged in the chest by his abused wife as he sat eating his dinner. "Toss it outside," you say. "Go on." And then as Raylan does so, you give your sister-in-law a command. "Ava, why don't you go in the kitchen, maybe watch some TV or somethin'? Go on."

And then back to the other man, "Well, come on in. Sit down. Help yourself, Raylan. The gravy ain't bad. I mean, it ain't like your mama used to make it, but it never is, is it?" As Raylan does so, you go on, "Let me ask you somethin'. When you shot that gun thug in Miami - was there food on the table, like this?"

"There was," he says.

"Well, have somethin'," you urge him. "Have a little chicken. And you - well, you had your gun." You take a bite of mashed potatoes. "What kind was it?"

Raylan picks up a drumstick and holds it in his left hand to take a bite. "That time? SIG 226."

"And where was it?" you persist. "Was it on the table where mine is?"

"It was holstered."

You don't believe that for a second. "Bullshit."

"It was holstered," he insists.

"And where was his?"

"Under the table."

A little more conversationally, you ask, "And what did he have? What kind of piece, I mean?"

"I don't recall."

"Well, how did you know when to pull?"

"He went first."

You pause, staring the length of the table at Raylan. "And you gave this gun thug twenty-four hours to get out of town. Now, was the time up when you shot him?"

"Pretty close."

"Well, how much time do you think you've got left?" you ask, having given Raylan a similar ultimatum earlier that day.

He looks mock-confused. "I thought I had till noon tomorrow."

"Well, what if I said it was right now?" you challenge him. "I mean, unless, of course, you wanna finish that chicken leg."

"Well, I mean, you can call it off," Raylan says, smiling like he's doing you a favor. "I mean, I don't mind."

You shake your head. "Well, if you're gonna keep after me, Raylan, I figure we might as well just get 'er done."

"Your 45 is on the table, but I have to pull," he asks. "Is that how we do it?"

"Well, I appreciate that, Raylan. Yes, I do believe it is my call." You grin widely, all teeth like a shark. "What're you packin'?"

He stares you down calmly. "You'll pay to find that out."

You whistle in appreciation of his bravado. "You've got ice-cold water runnin' through your veins." Game on. "Well, should we just do us a shot of Jim Beam, just for old times' sake?" You look away from the table. "Ava! Get us a shot of Jim—" And then you stop, because suddenly Ava has the shotgun pointed at you, stock under her arm, finger on the trigger.

"You want to know what Bowman said when he looked up and he saw me with his deer rifle?" she asks and you look at her with exasperation. "God damn, woman, you only shoot people when they're eatin' supper?"

"He had his mouth full of sweet potato," she continues, 'he said, 'the hell you doing with that?'"

You feel increasingly more nervous. "Ava, put the gun down, please."

"You want to know what I said? I said, 'I'm gonna shoot you, dummy.'" And then she jerks the shotgun up to her cheek. It's a tense moment while you gauge her intent and then you go for your pistol. A split second faster, Raylan pulls and shoots you in the chest, the force of it punching you out of your chair as Ava fires the shotgun and a 12-gauge pattern rips into the bare wall.

Raylan gets up from the table, gun still in hand and stoops over you, leaning down.

"You did it, huh? You really did," you say, shocked, gasping laboriously as you lie on the floor, lungs filling up with blood.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, "but you called it."

"Why'd you say you're sorry?" Ava asks Raylan.

And the last thing you hear as your world fades to black, is Raylan saying, "Boyd and I dug coal together."

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[Boyd doesn't look as distraught as some over the onslaught of violent dreams; his waking hours having been pretty much the same deal for a large part of his life. They do make his sleep restless however and he looks as tired as if he hadn't been sleeping at all.]

I don't suppose there's such a thing as a dreamless sleepin' pill.

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