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Marcus Vance is a full-time writer who lives with his wife, daughter, and dog. On his Twitter page (@MarcusCVance) he talks about writing, and publishes microfiction almost daily. However, sometimes he just tweets jokes.
I left the bar when the sun started to dip under the horizon. The humidity hit me like a jealous lover, and threatened strangulation.
My black oxfords clicked on the cobblestone roads of the French Quarter while warm beer moved my feet. I wandered like the wide Mississippi.
Home called. Needed to lock myself up tonight since I'd have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.
Unfortunately the buzz had me feeling too good, and I slipped into a dark alleyway a few blocks from home.
The metal on metal sound of a pistol slide being racked made my ears perked up.
"Don't ya get any funny ideas, Pops."
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Guns sober me up good, so I reached for the sky.
"I won't. I'm not the creative type, friend," I said.
"Bon. I got ten bullets in this pistol, and they all pointed at 'chu. Jus' gimme dat gold watch, Pops. Den I leave ya be."
I looked up past my raised hands, and saw clouds floating across the night sky. The full moon glistened. It called to me. It pulled me. I started to tremble and quake.
"Ten bullets?" I asked. "Any of them silver?"
None were.
The End
This story was first published on Thursday, October 10th, 2019
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