White Hands, Pt. 6

I’m standing there motionless, staring at the eyes. The eyes don’t blink. They never blink. I mean, I don’t blink all that often myself, but even I blink sometimes. The eyes, though. They’re just staring down from the sky, silently watching everything. I think they’re looking at me, but they’re not. They’re looking at everything and nothing all at once. The hands come up, forefingers and thumbs spread out in the shape of an L, and they frame the eyes. They drop back down. I feel cold metal pushed against the side of my head.

“Oh, motherfucker.”

“There you are! Silly Mr. Cat-Bear. You thought you could hide from me, didn’t you?”

Yeah. There the hunter is, holding his gun against my skull. “Do you really think my idea of hiding involves me standing stock still out in the open? I forgot you were there, you moron.”

He jabs the barrel of the gun against my head again and leans in closer. I can smell his breath, sour, like so much rotting meat. “It seems to me, Mr. Cat-Bear, that the moron is the one with the barrel of a shotgun to his head. The moron is the one who got caught. The moron is the one standing out in the open while he’s being actively hunted.”

I blink. That doesn’t sound right. The hunter’s never been that smart. Most days the bastard talks like he’s got some kind of speech impediment. I don’t say anything and he jabs me again.

“Well? No retort? No one-liner? No quip?”

I jam my hands into my pocket in desperate search for a way out. Seems to me the hunter should pull the trigger then and there, but he doesn’t. “Nope,” I say pulling out horseshoes, cupcakes, rubber chickens and carelessly tossing them all aside. “I don’t have nothing to say. Nothing at all. You got me dead to rights, buddy.” And then I feel it, cold and round metal. Like a baseball that means business. I grin. Still the hunter doesn’t do anything.

“No last words?”

“Actually, yeah. I do have one thing to say.” I pull out the grenade, take a step back, and gently toss it underhand at the hunter’s face. “Catch.”

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