HALF A GLASS OF WINE, A SMOKING GUN AND A SHORT NOTE

My wife and I were talking the other night about writing short stories and I told her about how I wrote The Soldier Who Loved Autumn Joy.  It began with only one line that kept going round and round inside my head.  The line was, "An old man stumbled out of the forest and into the clearing." and I had no idea what the story was going to be about, but sometimes words just have a way of forming their own lives.  As we chatted, I said, "Sometimes for me, that's all it takes to get started; just one line" and I jokingly added, "Like this could be the start of a story, "The half empty glass of wine was sitting next to a smoking gun."  And here's the result of that line - hope you enjoy it - cheers- eh! 

A white plastic cup half full with red wine and a big red lipstick mark on its brim was sitting on a small wooden table next to a still smoking revolver.  Underneath the plastic glass was a piece of wrinkled paper with a short note written on it.

Lying on the dishevelled bed situated next to the small wooden table was the body of a young woman in her early twenties.  She was completely nude, naked as the day she was born; not even a single bed sheet was covering her.  Even in death, she was still a beauty; not a mole, a scar, not a single mar could be seen on her skin, which was as white as alabaster.  Her legs and arms were long and slim, the fingers and toes shaped perfectly.  Short platinum blonde hair, teasingly curled, framed her oval face.  And surprisingly, judging on the blonde mound where her two legs met, she was a true blonde.  It was plain to see that her taunt tummy, firm hips, curvy waist and large round breasts were made for bed time pleasure.  Large aqua-blue eyes, beneath pencil thin eyebrows were tastily lined with black mascara.  Evenly spaced between her pert nose, they stared wide open at the ceiling.  Her sensual full lips, shaped in the moment of surprise, bore traces of red lipstick that matched the shade, which were on the white plastic cup.  Such was her beauty, that if her skin had been an olive shade and her hair jet black, she could have been the wife of a rajah, a Hindu princess, except the red dot on her forehead between her eyes wasn't a ceremonial marking, it was a red bullet hole, a tiny trickle of blood sliding towards her right eye.

The off-white wall with a large framed scenic print portraying snow covered mountains and clouds hanging over her head was splattered with blood and gore; the two thick bunched-up pillows, her head was lying on, was drenched with blood as well.  She'd been sitting up with her legs spread apart when the bullet had entered her head, killing her instantly.  She almost looked like a fallen dead angel with her legs and arms spread apart, the white bed sheets shaped like large wings about her body.

A man was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, just the other side of the small wooden table.  He glanced nonchalantly at the dead woman and then towards the large shattered window directly across from him.  It was beginning to get dark outside and the neon sign in the parking lot of the Welcome Home Inn was blinking on and off, casting gloomy shadows about the room.  All he wore was a pair of pissed-stained undershorts, unless of course a wig was considered attirement.  He was middle-aged with a big beer gut bulging over his shorts.  Unlike the pretty dead prostitute lying on the bed, his arms and legs were thick and hairy with pudgy hands and feet.  A lit cigarette, a roll-your-own, dangled from the corner of his turned-down mouth, the ash hanging precariously over his enormous gut.  He had a florid complexion, rheumy eyes, double chins and the jowls that sagged almost down to his hairy chest gave the illusion that he didn't have a neck - hence his name - No-Neck-Norman.

As he leaned over and stretched for the revolver on top of the table, he blew a loud fart.  Even in this room of death, he couldn't help but snicker.  Just as he thought; the gun was empty but it didn't matter.  His trusty Tommy gun was lying next to him on the floor and he knew there were still quite a few live rounds in its chamber of death.  And, if he could reach the small bathroom located on the other side of the bed, there was a lot more ammunition for it inside.

The man began crawling carefully over shards of  broken glass towards the bathroom and as he did so, he heard a man's voice booming out of a megaphone.  "Norman!  Norman Miller!  Come out with your hands in the air!"

As if, he thought to himself as he continued towards the door on all fours.  You don't think I know what happened to Bonnie and Clyde and Dillinger.  Talk about a slaughter.

The man on the megaphone was an FBI agent.  A part of him wanted No-Neck to surrender and another part wanted to just blast him away.  But he was an officer of the law and, as such, had to obey those laws.  "Don't make us come in and get you Norman!  Give yourself up!  There's no way out!  We've got you completely surrounded!"

When No-Neck-Nelson reached the bathroom, semi-machine gun bullets stitched across the open door and wall, the porcelaine sink shattered and lying on the floor, he grabbed an old army canvas bag filled with clips of ammo from out of the bathtub and slung it over his shoulder.  Discarding the partially used clip already in the gun, he loaded a full clip and cautiously made his way towards the door leading outside.  Before reaching the door, he stopped by the shattered window, the long green curtains hanging in tatters, and carefully surveyed his situation.  Two huge spotlights were shining brightly on his motel room and there were at least twelve other well-armed coppers tucked down behind three vehicles, besides the guy on the megaphone.  No-Neck snickered again as he read the neon motel sign and looked at his surroundings.  "If this is the Welcome Home Inn", I'd hate to see what the Welcome to Hell Inn looks like."

If only I had some grenades he thought, I just might be able to blow my way out of this shit-hole.  He'd been out-numbered and pinned down before and always managed to get away.  But this time, it looked impossible unless...unless he could blast the lights out and somehow grab one of those police cars.  He'd have to make every shot count and he knew that as soon as he fired the first shot, a blizzard of bullets would be heading his way.

Looking at a large sharp chunk of glass still attached to the splintered window frame, he noticed his reflection.  Still thinking he looked like his old cavalier, dashing, rogueish young self of years ago, even dressed in nothing but a pair of soiled undershorts, he adjusted his wig and looked at the young pretty blonde.  Then, looking back at his reflection, he winked at himself and said, "You still got what it takes boy!"

Even if the cops didn't shoot him down like a dog if he gave himself up, Norman knew that he would be imprisoned for the rest of his life.  And knowing that, he loaded a .45 shell into the lethal chamber of his submachine gun and yelled, "If you want me coppers?  Come an' get me!"

And on saying that, No-Neck- Norman, Public Enemy No. 1, stepped in front of the window and fired a burst of shells at the cops.  Whether he'd hit any of them, he'd never know.  He was like a marionette, his strings being jerked by a drunken puppeteer as a blaze of gunfire erupted from the copper's weapons.  His wig was still in place but his jaw had been shot off and there were holes all through his body when he landed in a bloody, gory heap on the floor next to the small wooden table where the lipstick-smudged white plastic glass, which was half full of red wine was resting on a piece of wrinkled paper containing a short note.

It read: Life's a bitch...and then you die; signed N.N.N.