February 17, 2013 I don’t know how they found me. It was impossible.

There was only one thing I could do about it: Take care of business. I’m a gunrunner. I transport guns from Memphis to Little Rock and vice versa. Tonight I was on my way to Memphis. There was a package in the truck I was delivering to my girlfriend. It was a Stinger rocket launcher. That’s what I headed for when the Defender shown its Xenon torchlight on my Honda Prelude. When that happened, I popped the trunk and stepped out into the freezing wind. “GET BACK IN THE CAR – NOW!” The helicopter pilot boomed over the loudspeaker. I gave him the finger and made my way to the Honda’s rear. My boots crunched over the snow a gridlocked Hernando De Soto Bridge hadn’t done away with. I opened the trunk. I found the rocket launcher.

“THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE! GET BACK IN YOUR CAR!” No, this is your last chance, asshole. I whipped out the Stinger. I set the sight. I fired the heavy son of a gun. And yes, I even smiled through a grimace. The Stinger screamed. I was bathed in backwash. Ka-boom! The Defender’s nose took a direct hit. It spurt a flower of flame before the rest of the aircraft blew up. What was left rained down into the Mississippi River below. Car doors opened. Occupants ran for dear life. It was madness. Oh well. Shit happens. My girlfriend was going to kill me. I played with her toy before she did. I chunked the Stinger back in the trunk. Closed the lid. After which, I went and stood near the railing. From here, I had a perfect view of the Memphis skyline.

There was only one thing to do now. Go see my girlfriend, who I had surely stung.

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