Pistol Wrists 2 – By: D.e.e.L

                              Pistol Wrists 2

                                 By: D.e.e.L

 Copyright 2012 – D.e.e.L

Disclaimer: This story involves intense situations and is not recommended for everyone. Please be aware of this before reading and proceed at your own will. This story is completely fictional. Do not attempt anything within the context of this story. Discretion is advised.


            Whispers, all I can hear is whispers…I can’t even tell what they are saying…it’s about me though…about what I’ve done.

            Blood no longer drips from my self-inflicted wounds. This gift I have placed upon myself is still justified within my mind, this world, the people I have helped. The old man, the shadow, the gun shot to end his misery was heard; I was found. He had asked me to release him to worlds beyond this one, as he was so sure of their existence. He, who truly understood the world in my eyes took a last glimpse to the sky, said he wished to pluck a last gaze of the stars before he became one forever. My adolescence provides a barrier to my words, these badges that bark before me. My mother on a bench far away…crying as she looks into my eyes, glancing away as I look up to see her.

            All are too cautious as to come close enough to touch me. A simple flick of my wrist can kill a man, someone says. All are of but equals to each other, though not to me. It is true what the man with the beard said, though a simple flick wouldn’t kill, a hard clenched fist is what releases my sanction. Each a coward, hiding, fading into the darkness. I begin to count them…1…2…3…4…

            I then check each barrel…1…2…3…4…5…6…

            Her gaze finally locks into my own, my eyes full of trust. With my eyes I look at her and then to the ground, repeating until she nods; a tear drops from her face, yet she still nods.

            My right hand is cuffed; loud noise; my right hand was cuffed; guns drawn towards me; I wouldn’t have make such a disruption without first planning my entire course. The desk, four feet away, I dive, peer my right wrist just beyond the far edge of the desk, one down, I make a run towards another desk at the other end of the room, at least twenty feet away, two down and then I dive, scramble quickly, get hit in the foot, left foot, they yell, call me out, give up, reinforcements are on the way, middle of the desk where the name tag is, three down, fourth…timid as I stand…he assumes me some sort of evil…four down.

            Her eyes squint, tear, now abandoned of my heart. Her life of impurities just to put food in front of me, I love her more than the world could ever love itself. She no longer knows me, but I now know more than anyone shall ever begin to fathom. She will not grab my hand as we exit, though she is too scared to leave my side. Sirens, loud and endless in their oblivious chase towards someone they will never peer into. I throw a pistol to the streets as its bullets fill me.

            What next?

            She just wants to go home; home is no longer a word that exists to us. I must free more people, learn what they never could. I click, click, click, and then finally hear a beep. A timid looking car, keys were lying on the desk that was but four feet away. She drives, traveling towards the next reason to save. Drive, drive, endless are the roads set before us; I glimpse into the worlds of past, within my mind I can almost see them. They were driven by money to build these roads…I wonder what lives they lived at home, the family man, the drunk, all but past are they now.

            I feel it coming before it happens…

            …she halts the car as we reach to the center of the middle of nowhere…

            …cries of horror reach out to grab me, sobbing, questions, my eyes show no sign of blood, she will never understand, yet I will always love her for her sacrifice. I exit the car; it drives away, Love.

            The road appears vacant, yet it is bound that someone will pass. It best I just assume that they do not understand “It”; emotions grab hold of me quickly for those that do.

            These passing wheels could never understand…

            Radio is playing music I like before I even enter the car, must have been pure chance.

            Words of decaying poets spill into my ears as wheels created by the shy rip me forward through the passing visions. Cells begin to fill with the tranquil melodies, until…


            Identity is shouted out through the speakers from which I fall away from. People are warned of my existence, told of what I have “done”. “It” isn’t finished, this bestowment I have placed upon myself is not “done” with “It” yet. I turn the station; mimic does my hearing consume. Roads are only black, lines dotted or whole, we listen to them, as long as the person in front of us is going fast enough, for we all want to go through life as fast as we can; experience it all before never seeing “It” again.

            Stopping; I keep going until I need to stop. Cars are sold to us for endless wealth, sold to us in a way that demands repair, more money. In order for them to even be worth cash from hand we have to put the liquid of our ancestors into a tank we cannot even see. I have no money; I cannot afford to place past lives into my attempt at never ending. I stop at a gas station.

            Battered shoe in front of the other, repeating until I reach the door. A small building, very small. An old man inside, probably robbed daily, today is a day just as all others. He puts up an argument, says he must use this job to feed his family that I have never met before. Shown in girth, he pulls back at my pushing attempts at his liquor money. I ask his children’s names, their ages, their birthdays and the color of their eyes. He looks to the ground, the ceiling, his skull crashed open against the wall. The register isn’t even locked. I act as if working there, enough to fill my tank and accept the decent tip in hand.

            Voices on the radio tell me of their attempts, plans, actions, and failures. Helicopters.

            Rubber peels away as I stick an arm out the window and clench my fist as I shout out the words to the song in my head.

            Static, static, static, unwanted noise. They talk of a bounty now on my life, now on “It”. I have become equal to the worth of one working for a year as someone they don’t want to be for eight hours a day, breaking their dwindling time as they wait for two days to sleep slightly longer, only to get done what has no chance of ever completing. Two days to live, two days to pretend it’s all worth “It”.

            Helicopters. They spray their loud searches past me, having not a clue that I am inside this speeding worthless. I could step outside and be seen in a second. My composure has fallen, my appearance fading, burned away by my heroics. Battered wrists are now hidden by my face. :The beast becoming me.

            Spinning, spinning, twirling, twirling, rotating are the wheels of man racing me into the unseen worlds of my youth. Blades whipping at speeds I cannot comprehend move in close to me, peer into my heart. The voice on the radio knows where I am.

            Not long will it take them to find me, come for me, chase me, try. I pull off the road to halt. Slower, the large hands on the clock begin to stop throwing time into the winds as the helicopter lands. I step out of my car and lean up against the closed driver door. Hands behind my back. They approach me as I count them in front and behind me. The pilot is most likely armed as well, I’ll have to take one of their guns for him. There are only four of them, five counting the pilot. One forgets the earth in seconds, I fall to the ground, roll under the car and to the other side. Three, not counting the pilot. They will attempt to surround me, yet leave one in front, the pilot will not leave his position yet, as he hopes they kill me. Both appear at the same time as I had planned, fall upon the soil at the same time, even though one was much heavier, such an experiment I had tried before with the same results. The pilot will be unbuckling his seatbelt now. The fourth man will be backing up towards his escape. I grab both of the guns, much quicker than mine. I fly myself to the roof of the car and begin mercy to their pain as I end both of them quickly. The pilot had just opened the door to aid in my erasing.

            I don’t know how to fly this thing, and I won’t even attempt. I pick up the pilots gun and fill “It”.

            More terrors of whom they assume me to have become fills the minds of those that have never known me. The new voice on the radio is even more annoying, as I had just muted the one screaming of the beast before him. I take off my left shoe, assuming time exists to reflect on backed forgottens. Pain is something I no longer find to exist. I flick the holed shoe to the ground and rip the bloodied sock from my soul. My foot mutilated. Battered as my wrists used to be; still are, yet not within my care. I trade battered shoes for common footwear; boots. I press my left wrist to my right foot, my teeth do not even begin to grind. Even have I become; painless in body and thought.

            Limping would be odd.

            More will come. More will always come. I drive. I ponder of the world for a moment before stopping once more; waiting. I sit atop the vehicle I have claimed to be something I do not care about and I wait. A motorcyclist rolls up to me and pulls a shotgun upon me seconds before his death. A van looking to offer candy to children funnels out grown men that fall to the ground just as quickly as their desires. Another helicopter, spots me, and reports me, and leaves, I hear it all from the annoying voice. I can’t stand his vocal chords, so I shoot with acquired accuracy into the back tail of the copter. The radio is more peaceful now, for now.

            A limousine curls up beside me. A window rolls down and no gun pokes out. I hear doors open from the other side of the stretched waste, yet still no face appears within the window. Men wearing matching and sunglasses stand armed on the other side of the opened window. A pompous prick glares his wonderless eyes to my person. He says to understand the beast. He claims to want to hold my gift within his hands and unwrap it to the world. I listen to his words and make another fold to the paper with each phrase of hopeless he vomits before me. The only way he can spread joy to the world is with money; the alacrity of his tone is obvious.

            I let him step out of the vehicle. I let him show me his pistol. I allow myself to glance at his steady hand opened with palm before me. He wants his initials to bleed into his victim’s heart. Purged fingers cram the bullets into a gun matching the same intent of purpose I find to have no true meaning. Barrel directs towards dreams of “victory”. My back hits the ground harshly, pain not existing, only the will to keep “It” from becoming a nightmare. He pulled the trigger seconds too late as I had been planning seconds before his catcher could withhold the nightmare of his failure. With my back still filthed to the ground I clench my fist to the sight of his shocked shin. He tumbles and I see his chin moments before it’s expelled from this realm by a simple flex. Sunglasses hide the burning of the glare between the transparent clouds, yet still don’t allow them to see between the shining bullets of fate that are placed between each of their frames. Trembleless appendages of the common hand pick up the initialed ammunition.

            The driver of the limousine was trying to run away.

            Sitting and waiting has proved to be of nothing but a refill. Effortless replicas to the word used to describe life beyond living dwell near the pedals of the vehicle. Push and go once ancestors ignited; I am off, infinitied to times before.

            I wonder what the man that had to dig right there ate before he came to work for the existence of this road during one of his Fridays, right before the weekend. Friday, we all dream of it, some swallowing cup after cup of ground bean flavored water just to grasp the energy to make the day last into the next upon their clock no longer existing according to a simple final swipe of a card for the week. I bet he had eggs, or she, and I bet time didn’t exist earlier in the week for such a meal, and being ten minutes late was a matter that did not appear to worry. Should have just taken the day off.

            Curling over and over upon themselves, only inflated by polluted subsistence of the mortals that had to feed a family, filled with the air we do not desire, curling over and over upon themselves the tires rush. Arrest in expulsion from momentum occurs as my eyes flash to a victim of abuse; a victim of immortal Love to my soul high above my legs and above even the tallest clouds that reach beneath us all. Rewind recent passing’s as I create a time where my transportation exists where I need it to be placed. I step out. They have her. Bate. Checkmate, to who’s end is still lingering in my psyche.

            Her eyes used to be so loving: I loved them as a child.

            I pull my flingers against my wrists to count, the initials waiting at the end of each forearm. Two pistols placed against “It” – “Her” – “Tears drop upon a figment of my heart”.

            I ask for demands, knowing that it is me. They scowl me with pitiless pity.

            I ask again without intention to answer. I ask again and again and never once do I think anything but the facts. I cup each of my fists upon my temples and tell them to back away from “It”. They do, as I had planned. 1, 2, 3, 4, countless and worthless in their readiness. The two that backed away from the back of behind her eyes are gone before the third can even react. The forth fired and missed just before I hit him, and the fifth never stood a chance. 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13…all just waiting and firing at an immortal beast. The car belonging to no one becomes a shield that blocks, another and his friend and his coworker, their families will miss them. Initials aren’t meant to be expelled upon pages of those you have never met. Initials are created upon a handshake, a moment of purpose, an agreement; I do not agree with these men. I run towards her body huddled closely to the ground, pick up a gun and eradicate a few more from attempt. She is safe as I teleport with such intent to wherever I need to be, pre-planning becoming each step, gone, gone, given to the earth. I have become “It”.

            I can’t bear to see her like this; eyes tortured beyond any possible pain. She does not look up at me, though I still see her face. Each tear joins us closer. Initials bleed within her brain, almost escape.



  1. Excellent us of ‘disjoint’ in the narrative to reflect the state of the narrator and ultimately capture the fragmented confused nature of life experiences themselves. It’s ‘high literature’ work, poetry in prose, but with a unique addition of your ‘grainy’ and painfully represented emotional edginess.


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