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face.  
    Though he said nothing, I answered, “Yes, him. . .”
    He began to sob, looking down in shame. Only it was worse than just crying, it was a kind of half-choked blubbering.
    “Phillip, please. . . Please don’t. I love you. More than anything, I—“
    That was the only time in my life I’d ever heard those words come out of his mouth, with the exception of church when he felt the need to put on a show for others.
    “SHUT UPPPPPP!!! YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!” I screamed at him belligerently, without any concern that someone might hear.
    Then I remembered where I was and why I was here. I lowered my voice, and continued my indignant diatribe.
    “You never loved me. Don’t you ever fucking say that to me you cocksuckin’ piece of shit!”
    I ranted a slew of other colorful curses through clenched teeth, but I was so angry at the moment I can’t even remember what I said. I only know I was so consumed by emotions, that I’d forgotten what I was holding in my hand.
    Apparently Jack sensed this too, and leapt at me with a feeble drunken lunge, a last ditch attempt at survival. Without thinking about it, I pulled the trigger. Pure reflex. A bloody hole popped open in the polyester of his slacks as the report of the revolver deafened my ears, leaving behind a nice ringing sound that would linger for the next few minutes. 
    I got him in his left thigh, halfway between his waist and knee, straight through all the muscle and flab. Jack fell before he could tackle me, but on his way down he grabbed a handful of the tail of my open flannel shirt.
    And as the muffled sound of tearing fabric tunneled its way into my ears through the flat ring of the first gunshot, I was distantly aware of a young woman screaming from about fifty yards behind me.
    Then Jack took hold of my loose, denim jeans, and tried in vain to pull me towards him. An outraged cry erupted from his throat, “Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”
    Despite all the confusion, I knew I had to finish this. As he raised his head up and bellowed his monotonous cry, I planted the nozzle of the gun in his left eye and squeezed the trigger.
    I was amazed at how much quieter the report was, just a soft spishhh sound and then a thoonk as the bullet popped out the back of his skull and ricocheted off the quarter panel of a beat-up old corvette parked next to Jack’s truck.
    Blood began fountaining out of Jack’s missing eye as his head was smacked backwards by the fatal shot. Again, my mind seemed to take a picture.
    Blood was spreading in a pool around his head on the blacktop, legs in a Figure-4 position, and jaw hanging slack like a drugged-up patient in a mental institution. But what really shook me up the most was the twitching. That god-awful twitching. That’s one thing they never show in the movies.
    Jack’s right arm and the right side of his neck began having these subtle spasms as his brain slowly died. What really topped it off was when his foot moved with a quick jerk and his scuffed loafer touched my shoe.  
    I pissed my pants right there. I’m not joking. My full bladder decided to evacuate itself, at least partially, without my permission.
    Jack’s blazer had fallen open on his left side and I could see the edge of his wallet sticking out. I reached in with only a thumb and index finger, carefully plucking it out. No cash, but then again I hadn’t expected any. There were no credit cards either. I guess Jack hadn’t seen the point in bringing them since they were all maxed out.
    Suddenly I remembered the girl who’d just screamed. There was now a witness to this and she was directly behind me. I almost turned to look at her but realized she would never be able to identify me in a line-up if she never saw my face.
    So I ducked down and raced in between all the parked vehicles, turning right, turning left, but steadily making my way back towards the street, only daring to stand up to ease the strain on my back when I was behind a tall SUV or