of the short story I'm working on... enjoy
Sgt. Rickshoe
"I always knew it would come to this." crooned Sgt Rickshoe chewing on the end of his last Cuban cigar, the bitter scent fermenting in the cruel summer heat. With his other hand he swept the right side of his heavy mac behind his hip, so he had easy access to the custom Vulcan .73 caliber pistol on his hip, If it hit it could kill most whales. He felt a small bead of sweat work its way down from his pompadour hair-do, behind his aviator shades and stopped short of his lips by his handlebar mustache. He'd killed a few people that day and another one wouldn't make a dent in his mood.
"This ends here and now!" barked Mr. 8 commander of the 8-ball kill crew. He stood 20 feet across the abandoned parking lot. His genetically engineered Tyrannosaurus mount stood a few feet behind him eying the traffic that was moving on the nearby overpass. He hovered his right hand over his six shooter. His six six shooter being a literal term, as it fires all 6 rounds with one pull of the trigger. He was 6ft 6 inches tall and almost as wide. Decked out in his favorite Wednesday suit he resembled a small giant. The sun gleamed of his shaved bald head and flashed cross Rickshoes face.
Both men drew there guns with a sharp snap.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
12 hours earlier...
The 1971 neon pink Cadillac beast careered over the hill in the centre of San Dimas at a blistering speed.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh" said the man handcuffed to handle. On the outside of the car.
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