INRODUCING A NEW AMERICAN HERO!

 

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ONE

ST LOUIS, MISSOURI

 

 

 

 

 

THE MAN COULD HAVE SHOT THE GEEZER then and there. He wanted to, bad, real bad. Wanted to paint his goofy-looking face across the back wall of the gun shop in his own blood and brains. But he didn't. Practicing self-denial, he resisted: You’re in it for the long-game, buck-o, he reminded himself.

Rather than yank the 45 Magnum from his waistband and start blasting-away, he left the weapon safely holstered at the small of his back, beneath the fold of a loose-fitted Hawaiian shirt. Later, should the urge arise, he was satisfied to know he’d left his options open.

“Ya’ got it?” the Geezer said, speaking to the man as if he was an idiot.

“Yes sir, indeedy I do,” the man said, an appropriate amount of humility and respect inflecting his reply.

Eyeing the man skeptically, the Geezer said, “Y’all mocking me, boy?”

“No sir, surely, I am not.”

What the man got was the Geezer’s admonition that the weapon on the counter-top in front of him was not a Trifle—as the Geezer had put it—but rather a sophisticated and highly efficient killing machine.

As if I don't know it already, asshole; as if it’s not why I'm here in the first place, the man said to himself.

“In the wrong hands,” the old coot said, his grizzled claws fingering the dark, cold metal as if it was a sex toy, “this bad-boy can do a lotta’ damage, conjure-up a whole world ah’ human sufferin’ ‘an pain.”

What I’m counting on, asshole, the man thought, repulsed at the sight of the Geezer’s ancient paws fondling his soon-to-be prized possession.

“Uner-stan’?” the Geezer said, this time with a conspiratorial wink.

“Oh, yes sir,” the man replied with a wink-back. “Yes, sir, indeedy I do.”

Thirty minutes later, the man exited the gun shop to the street, his youthful stride and boyish appearance making him look much younger than his forty-six years. The Mizzou ball-cap on his head and knapsack over his shoulders helped to reinforce the impression; a student on his way to class.

But it wasn’t the tools of higher learning weighing down his backpack today, it was the implements of death; a disassembled CheyTac M300 XTreme Long Distance lightweight aluminum sniper-rifle with parts and ammunition including both long-range and night-vision scopes; fourteen rounds of .375 caliber shells; and a dog-eared copy of Chris Kyle’s memoir, American Sniper.

The Idea! had come to him months earlier, after buying the paperback edition in a used book shop in Phoenix. He’d carried it with him ever since.

On the street, the sun was bright, warming his face. From the gun shop, the man walked south on Jefferson Avenue at a steady pace, turning left at Market Street in the direction of the great Mississippi River. In the distance, The Gateway Arch appeared to him like a whore with her legs splayed wide-open.

On Market, the man stepped into a diner serving all-day breakfast. The interior smelled faintly of grease. He chose a booth by the window where dead flies littered the sill. The waitress arrived.

“Nice shirt,” she said to the man, nodding in appreciation.

The man thanked her and ordered bacon and two eggs sunny-side up.

“You wants grits with that?” the waitress asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I do,” he said, his Arkansas drawl fluid and seductive. “Indeedy, I do.”

Breakfast arrived in short order. The waitress, a bedraggled-looking African American woman of middle-years, poured a coffee refill. Though served lukewarm, the meal was satisfying. After wiping his plate clean, the man ordered a third coffee refill.

For what seemed a long time, he sat staring from the window to the street. After a while, he set down his cup. He settled the tab in cash, leaving a modest twelve percent tip. The man proceeded to the toilet where he scrubbed his hands in a grimy basin. He rinsed his face with cold water from the tap.

Back on Market, the man turned right on 14th Street toward Gateway Station. There, he entered the restroom. In a stall, he removed the Mizzou ball-cap and the Hawaiian shirt. He donned a simple black tee. He transferred his arsenal from the Mizzou knapsack to a nondescript shoulder bag with a wide strap. Lastly, the man placed the cap, the backpack, and the Hawaiian shirt into a trash bin concealing them beneath a wad of soiled paper hand-towels.

Wearing a faded blue jeans jacket, a Cleveland Cavaliers ball cap, and appearing every minute his true age, the man exited the restroom. Paying cash, he purchased a ticket on the next Greyhound bus headed west. On the bus, the man selected twin seats in the rear, stowing his possessions like a traveling companion on the empty seat beside him. Once settled, the man dozed the easy sleep of death.