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Jaguar with my hands up, staring at a punk who
had a shaky grip on the Chrome 45 with the pearl grip.
    The gun was entirely
nickel-plated; its filigreed engraving shone even in the dim light of the
parking garage.  Probably a Colt MK IV. The only way I was going to get that
gun from his hand to mine was to get this mugger talking. He made it easy by
speaking first.
    “Give me the camera, the keys and
your wallet and step away from the Jag ‘fore I blow your fuckin’ head off.”  My
assailant, a kid age sixteen to twenty-five (hard to tell with gangster
types).  He was a wiry dude with crazy eyes and a shiny face, definitely on
something. His clothes were crummy and faded, nice Nikes, though. His hat was
turned backwards. He was not even trying to hide his identity. Not smart. He
must be needing cash in a bad way. A joy ride in a Jag would help his morale,
too.
    “Here’s my camera and my keys, but
I’ve got to tell you, that’s not my car. I wish it was,” I said, nodding at the
Jag.
    It was a 2010 Jaguar XK with
twenty pounds of beautiful burgundy paint and a tan convertible top.  This
model had twenty inch chrome wheels and was sold with an optional baseball bat
to keep away the hot chicks who were constantly throwing themselves at the
driver of this impressive machine.
    “Stop fuckin’ with me. I saw you
walk up to it. And give me the wallet!” The punk said, snatching the keys and
camera out of my raised hands.
    He told me to move slowly as I
reached for my wallet. He kept the gun on me while he started trying different
keys in the Jag.
    “I said that’s not my car. That’s
my car!” I said this, pointing over my shoulder at the grayish brown Chrysler
that was white under the dirt. I have several keys on my ring and the punk was
getting visibly agitated as he tried to jam each one into the Jag’s keyhole. I
braced myself just in case he decided to shoot. Thoughts about getting shot and
the pain it would involve flooded my head.  The garage pirate glanced over at
the Chrysler then back to me. I pushed back my fear.
    “Why did you pick this garage? 
Don’t you know there is a security camera on every row?  Even if you kill me,
they got you on tape.” When he looked toward the end of the empty parking level
and I made my move.
    I took two quick steps forward and
slapped the chrome gun out of his hand with a wide sweep of my left arm.  I
kept coming and brought my right foot up and delivered a kick to his groin that
Al Del Greco would have been proud of.
    He dropped like a sack of feed,
holding his aching nads. I almost kicked him in the head, but there really was
a security camera there, so I kicked him in the stomach. Less brutal.  I aimed
my cordovan Bostonian at his gut twice more and then walked slowly over to
where the gun lay.  As I bent over and picked up the nickel plated Colt, I
noticed my right foot hurt a bit.
    I turned around to look at my
attacker, my prisoner now. He was balled up on the concrete floor drooling,
hardly able to breath.
    “What’s your name?” I said,
stooping to pick up my keys and my camera.
    “Cfedwic!”
    “What?”
    “Cedwic,” he slurred, barely
audible.
    Cedric, ok. I frisked him and
found a small revolver in his left sock.  I dropped it in the pocket of my
windbreaker.
    “Where is your car, Cedric?” I
asked.
    “Downstairs, on the first floor.”
    He was starting to sound a better.
    “I’m sorry I have to do this but I
do not want you getting away from me.”
    I kicked him in the stomach three
more times so that I could drag him down stairs without him getting away or
resisting. It was like dragging luggage.
    My eyes burned from my hangover
and I was sweating out more coffee and beer as I dragged Cedric down the musty
stairwell.
    His rusty ‘84 Caprice was parked
across from the steps.  I took the keys from him and told him to get into the
trunk.   He told me I could shoot him, but he would not get in the trunk.  He
was flopped on the chilly