Storymania - A Gunslinger's Death Is Always Best by Kevin Myrick

A Gunslinger's Death Is Always Best
Kevin Myrick

It was dark and cold for Los Angeles, not something normal for this climate, even in December.
The cloud cover at night made for a dreary evening, so close to Christmas. Maureen thought, as
she worked the graveyard shift that this was the type of weather that really gave her the creeps.
The kind of weather that someone might very well get shot in.

And then, HE walked in. The man that had brutally gunned down her friends in the street outside,
and probably killed Joe as well. Joe was her favorite customer. But now, it was her third police
officer funeral in the past few months, and it was depressing her dearly. And she got angry at this
man, this vile piece of trash that came to the counter in front of her, and sat down. A damn shame,
she thought, a damn shame indeed. She didn’t want to see him tonight, of all nights she especially
didn’t want him in here tonight. His coming here brought a bad omen, but he sat at the counter anyhow
grabbing the small tin ashtray beside the napkin holder, and pulled out his cigarettes.

“Good Mornin’, Maureen,” the Boyfriend said. She frowned, but answered back anyhow. It was her job to
be polite to the customers, even though she hated this one fiercely.
“Don’t remind me that it’s this late. What can I get yah on?”
“My usual.”
“Of course.”
She hung the ticket on the spinning rack, and rang the bell. A noise came from the back, with a loud
clanking sound from where the cook, Daniel Jr., hit his leg on the stainless steel island used for
preparation of food.
“MOTHERFUCKER!”
“You okay D.J.?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Damn that hurt like hell.”

Maureen had been working for Daniel’s Pancake Palace for twenty years now. She was head waitress and
business manager. She was also Daniel’s mistress. For twenty years they had been together. It was after
Daniel’s wife died during complications bringing D.J. into this world that she asked her boss out on a
date. And since that time, they’d been together. She was D.J.’s mother of sorts, and she had raised him
to the best of her ability. But Daniel wouldn’t remarry, so they were just partners if anything.

“Maureen, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, why not lonely stranger.”
The boyfriend lit a cigarette before he continued. His cup of coffee, loaded with sugar, tasted especially
good this evening.
“How come you haven’t found another job? Workin’ this shift must be hell on the legs, and bad for the sleep
cycle.”
“What can I say, I get paid good and I get to meet good guys like… well, good guys in general.”
“I’m glad you think so highly of me Maureen.”
“Hon, I’m not sayin’ nothin’. I know why you did and why. I just don’t like watchin’ friends die. And just
because they did wrong doesn’t mean you should.”
“Well Maureen, sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
“That still don’t make it right.”

“Yeah, well, I never asked for anyone’s permission or acceptance of my task. Only that you stay out of my
way.”
“Just remember something, ‘You live by the sword, you die by the sword.’”
“So it goes Maureen, so it goes.”

And then, as if knowing he would be there, the Frenchman walks into the diner, and sits down out of all places
that are open at that particular time, on that particular night, beside the boyfriend.
“Bonsoir mes amis!”
“Bonsoir Monsieur.”
“It seems that we keep running into each other, no? It also seems that we have something in common. We both
like pancakes.”
“Well then,” Maureen said, “that’s what we make here. What can I get you?”
“Pancakes of course.”
“What kind?”
“Buttermilk is good, no?”
“Anything else?”
“Bacon.”
“And to drink?”
“Coffee, mademoiselle.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Maureen said with a smile. Maybe this night would get interesting after all, she thought.
She tore the ticket from her pad and placed it on the rack, and hit the bell.
“Bien. Merci Beaucoup mademoiselle.”

The Frenchman sat there, staring at the Boyfriend while silently stirring the coffee that had just been placed in
front of him. The sugar, the crème, all mixed perfectly so that nothing was out of place. Maureen came with the
coffeepot in her hand, asking if the Boyfriend wanted some more.
“Not quite yet Maureen, but thank you all the same.”
“I’ll be back in a few, it’s time for my smoke break.”
“Of course, mademoiselle. But please, do not rush yourself. We will be just fine out here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Mademoiselle, you have to sometimes enjoy the finer things in life, like the time you smoke a cigarette, to truly
understand what life is all about. The little things that make you happy after all, is what brings clarity.”
“Hm.”

Maureen walked off, giggling at this strangers sense of philosophy. Who does this man think he is, she thought,
Socrates? The Frenchman meanwhile, took a pack of cigarettes out from his jacket, a French brand called Grande Pommes,
and lit one. He had the zippo that was Woody Dean’s.
“I know you smoke on the job, but I didn’t know you smoked for pleasure as well.”
“I don’t.”

The Boyfriend stopped sipping his coffee for a moment, the cup hanging in the air in front of his lips. If his hand hadn’t
have been steadied from years of aiming a gun, he would have dropped the cup onto the counter, and watched it shatter into
a million pieces of ceramic. He turned towards the Frenchman, placing the cup in front of him, and watching the Frenchman
stir his coffee silently with the spoon, as if he had all the time in the world to make the coffee perfect for him. The cream
swirled in with the coffee, spiraling and turning the coffee black. The drag from the Frenchman’s cigarette reminded the
Boyfriend of Dante, the furnaces of hell glowing bright red.

The Boyfriend felt as if he were living in a surrealistic painting suddenly. Some artist’s wet dream of his face melting on a
canvas while watching the calm mannerisms of the Frenchman.

“So, you’re here for me then,” the Boyfriend said after a long pause.
“Well, I am going to enjoy these pancakes first, but then after that, I don’t know.”

D.J. brought out the pancakes to both of them while Maureen was out on her break still. He almost dropped one of the plates as
he brought them out, dragging his leg that he had hit on the island a few minutes before. D.J. suddenly realized that he had
forgotten their bacon, and went quickly in the back to fry some. Once again, the Boyfriend and the Frenchman were left alone in
the same room, both armed to the teeth.

“So, this is it then mon ami?” the Boyfriend asked.
The Frenchman took a long last drag of his cigarette before stumping it out, and blew the smoke upwards. He began to chuckle at
some private thought.
“Mon ami, this doesn’t have to be the end. You could just leave town, never come back. I can take credit for a job not completed,
and you can just live, and never show your face again in this town.”
“You know I can’t do that. There has to be something done.”
“For who? Mary?”
“Yes.”
“Let me tell you something mon ami. A woman is not worth killing or dying for. Ever. You ask Maureen, she’ll tell you the same
thing.”
“She was, and still is worth killing and dying for you patronizing son-of-a-bitch.”
“Then, mon ami, I guess this is the way it must be.”

D.J. came back with their bacon. The Boyfriend thanked him, and picked up a piece, biting it in half, and chewed. It wasn’t crispy
bacon, yet it wasn’t too undercooked. It was just the way he liked his bacon. It was almost perfect.

“You ever hear of a band called ‘Little Green Army Men?’” The Frenchman asked, changing the subject from that of impending death
for one or both of them.
“Who?” The Boyfriend asked.
“You’ve heard of ‘Flowers on the Wall?’”
“I have, and that was a hit in March of 1965. It was also in Pulp Fiction, remember?”
“Yes, I know this. Well, Little Green Army Men made a cover of this song.”

“Hmmm…”
“It’s pretty good mon ami. The melody and rhythm is played on electric guitars with a bit of a country twang.”
“A country twang?”
“Yes, a country twang.”

The Boyfriend was lying though. He’d heard of Little Green Army Men. He had seen them live once at a club when he and Mary had first
started dating. He’d owned one of their CD’s, before he had to destroy the apartment. Why was he lying? Why did he feel the need to lie
to this man? All he was trying to do was his job, a job that he was paid for. Just like D.J. back in the kitchen did his job of making
pancakes for hungry customers.

He looked up from his pancakes and bacon. He looked into the eyes of a returning Maureen, deep into her soul and found fire ridden
hatred for him, for the Frenchman. For any person that held a gun in their hands meaning to do harm to someone. She held a rag in her hand,
one that the Boyfriend felt could be used to kill both of them if it was somehow dangerous enough.

“You know, mon ami, I think it’s time we go. I’m done eating, aren’t you?”
The Frenchman did not reply, his mouth full of pancakes and bacon. He washed it down with coffee. “No, no, no, you are not done! Look at
your plate, still half full of food!”
“Mon ami,” the Boyfriend started. But the Frenchman cut him off with a look. So the Boyfriend stared again at his food, and continued to
eat what might be his last meal. The food, he was sure, would slow him down. And slow was not a feeling or action he needed at this moment
in time.

Maureen put the rag down, and came back with the pot of coffee. She refilled both of their cups, and grabbed a cup for herself to enjoy.
“Thank you Maureen,” the Boyfriend said as Maureen walked away, to go sit in the back with D.J.

“So, Mon ami,” the Frenchman began as he swallowed another bite. “What do you want to do after your business with my associates is finished,
assuming you do not fail in your task along the way.”
“Well, I haven’t exactly thought about that.”
“Should be something you think about later, you know. These days are getting precarious. Everyone needs a plan now.”
“It is something I shall think about later.”

The Frenchman took the last bite of his pancakes, and sipped some more of his coffee. He pulled out his cigarettes. The Grande Pommes were
in a colorful red box, with a picture of a woman on the front in a dress much like that of the 1920’s during prohibition. She held in her hand
a long ebony cigarette holder, and in her empty hand a large red apple. She was winking, as if she knew something that everyone else didn’t
quite know.

“Would you like one, mon ami?” The Frenchman asked politely. He had noticed the Boyfriend staring at the pack.

“No, thank you. I’ll stick to American brands of cigarettes for now.”
“Well, you can smoke your American cigarettes all the time then,” the Frenchman replied, with emphasis on the word American in a very French
accent, making him sound somewhat snobbish.
“Don’t get me wrong monsieur. I like America. Petrol is cheaper here, cars are tres assez, and the land is much larger.”
“Hmm,” the Boyfriend mumbled as he ate his last bite of pancakes.
“You know what my favorite thing about the United States is, mon ami?”
“What’s that?”
“Your hypocrisy. It’s amazing how awful your country really can be sometimes. You watch violent movies, listen to violent music. You watch
violence in the news every day, and read about it in your papers. Yet morally, your society abhors any violence. It is amazing to me really.

You are the most medicated people in the world, yet you will not tolerate illegal drugs. And of course, my favorite thing is cigarettes in
this country. You all think that, of course as a society, that smoking is bad. It causes cancer, it’s a health risk for children. Which mind
you, it is bad. But yet, you produce more cigarettes here in the United States than any other country in the world. And because of your
hypocrisy, a good percentage of the United States citizens smoke. And still, you show your hypocrisy by banning and taxing cigarettes insanely
in many states. Look at your state of Maryland. You can’t smoke in a place like this in Maryland. In restaurants, in bars, nightclubs. Nowhere can
you smoke! I went to an IHOP one time, and asked for a table in the smoking section. And the waitress looked at me as if I was a crazy person!”

The Frenchman took a drag of his cigarette after finishing his rant, exhaling the smoke from his lungs. His chest sank inward into his shirt and jacket
as he did so. Even for Los Angeles, it was cold outside this time of year. Christmas in Los Angeles hadn’t been this cold in years. The surfers on
the beach were complaining earlier in the day on the local news about how it was too cold to surf. A television was suspended over the counter in the
corner, and it was showing Headline News. Another attack on the U.S. Embassy in France by French Protestors had brought the current situation with renewed
trade talks with France to a head. The president was calling for support in Congress to possibly send more armed forces into the embassy in Paris to repel
the partisans.

“Mon ami,” the Boyfriend pointed towards the TV with his coffee cup. “Your friends are a little angry with my government right now.”
“Mhm. I believe they are angry because no one wants to buy French wine or perfume.”
“So what is France’s beef with America anyhow?”
“We don’t like being beholding to your country. We helped you win a war, you helped us win two. We think we’re even. Your country does not.”
“Ah.”
“France feels much of the time like they are being treated like, how do you say, a ‘red-headed step-child’ in Europe.”
“Well, nothin’ I can do about that. Maybe the President should be listening to you.”

Both men finished their coffee. The Boyfriend got up first, leaving a ten dollar tip for a five dollar meal. Maureen saw the tip from where she was sitting, and
didn’t really care whether or not he left a large tip. She needed the money, but he wasn’t who she wanted it from. He went to the register, holding the ticket
that Maureen had left. She pressed the buttons on the register, and he handed her the money.

“Well, Maureen,” the Frenchman said, “it looks like its time for us to leave this tres bien établissement.”
“Well, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
“If you hear gunshots, mademoiselle, don’t call the police. If you do, I’m sorry Maureen, but I will have to do something I wish not to do to you.”
Maureen looked the Frenchman in the eyes, and saw that he meant what he said. She nodded, staring at him. Those eyes, she thought, they’re cold. I can’t tell what
he’s thinking.

The Frenchman nodded at the Boyfriend. The Boyfriend grabbed his cowboy hat from the stool to his right, and headed towards the door. The Frenchman had his hand on
his waist, handing Maureen a twenty dollar bill for the meal. “Keep the change,” he said as he began walking to the door.

She mumbled a reply. It was a curt thank you.

The door chimed as they walked out, past the empty booths and the counter. The Boyfriend held the door for the Frenchman as he stepped outside, and pulled the cigarettes
back from the pocket he just had placed them in. The lighter that was Woody Dean’s flashed in the light of the parking lot, and was flicked to life by this mysterious man.
His Grande Pommes smelled a bit like a clove mixed with a black and mild cigarillo. It was sweet, but nauseating to think that he mostly smoked these before he killed a
person.

“Le Frechman,” the Boyfriend called over.
“Oui?”
“Can I borrow your lighter? It seems that I’m out of fluid.”
“But of course!” The Frenchman stepped over towards the Boyfriend, quickly and quietly, flicking open the Zippo one last time and lighting the Cowboy Killer hanging out of
the Boyfriend’s mouth.

“So that song you were talking about earlier,” the Boyfriend began, as he inhaled the thick blue smoke, then blowing it out quickly.
“What about it?” the Frenchman asked, getting quite curious.
“You know who originally sang it?”
“Well,” the Frenchman began to reply. He stopped for a moment and thought about it. He opened his mouth again. But the Boyfriend cut him off before he could speak.
“What, you don’t know? C’mon mon ami, it’s a good song after all. The chorus especially. I mean, listen to it.” The Boyfriend began to sing the words, “‘Countin’ Flowers on
the Wall, that don’t bother me at all, Playin’ Solitaire ‘till dawn, with a deck of fifty one. Smokin’ cigarettes and watchin’ Captain Kangaroo, now don’t tell me, I’ve nothin’
to do…”
“I know the fucking words,” the Frenchman said, annoyed.
“Do you now?” the Boyfriend replied sarcastically.

The Frenchman began to back away from the Boyfriend further, and started to part his jacket with his right hand.
“It doesn’t have to be this way. You could go back into your hotel room, pack your things and just leave. Leave me a token, something they know you would always have on. Like one
of your rings for instance. We told each other we wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t kill each other that day at Woody’s house.”
“I remember.”
“I was chained up for twenty minutes, mon ami.”
“I heard.”
“It was quite cruel of you to do that to me, to such a man. It was cold in the room from the air conditioning. The Russians finally let me out of those handcuffs.”
“That must have been a funny site, seeing the Russians laughing at you for being stripped down to you boxers.”
“They,” he began, lighting another cigarette, “enjoyed it a lot. It was the last thing they enjoyed. I had the last laugh. It is a bad idea to make fun of a professional killer,
especially this professional killer. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would.”
“So, we have a bit of a problem now, don’t we mon ami?”
“Oui.”
“You refuse to leave this place.”
“I refuse to leave town.”
“Because?”
“I’m not done yet. Did Roger make the call?”
“Yes. But how did you know about Roger?”
“I know lots of things.”
“Well, you’re just a man full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.” At that moment, the Boyfriend proved how fast of a gun he was, and pulled out the Colt .45 that was sitting in his hip holster, and fired. The pin, hitting the 185 grain
Winchester Silver tipped hollow point round, left the barrel of the Colt .45 at 1000 feet per second, hitting the Frenchman with around 400 pounds of force. The bullet force driving
into his stomach causes him to fall down flat on his back. The wound caused by the bullet itself is mortal. If the Frenchman does not get to the hospital in a few minutes, his liver
will shut down completely, and his blood unable to be processed will infect his body quickly. But that is not what will kill him. It’s the amount of blood loss in the short amount of
time that he has left.

The Boyfriend walked over to his latest victim, his helpless self lying on the ground. He was whistling the chorus to the song ‘Flowers on the Wall.’ His steel toed cowboy boots clinked
against the asphalt and crunched up the pieces of glass and small rocks that happen to meet the heel. Clink and crunch, clink and crunch his boots went as he came closer.

He came to his face, standing over him. The Frenchman, now bleeding profusely and the blood collecting in a puddle beside him, was breathing very heavily. The bullet must have also hit a
rib, and turned upwards puncturing a lung. The Boyfriend raised his head, looking up at the sky, still whistling.
“Looks like I’m the faster draw, gunslinger. Mon ami, it looks like this is your day to die.”
“Well, appearances can be deceiving.”
“If that’s what you think, then this is a situation I will have to correct.” The Boyfriend lit another cigarette, and overtook the conversation.
“You never answered my question.”
“Which one?”
“About the song.”
“Oh, hell,” the Frenchman said, struggling to speak as the pain worsened and his breathing became labored. “I don’t know.”
“It was the Statler Brothers.”
“What?”
“They were a good band too.”
“Oh fuck, I’m dying.”
“Yes, unfortunately you are. You live by the gun, mon ami,” the Boyfriend said, as he raised his gun towards the Frenchman’s head. “You die by
the gun.”

Before the Boyfriend squeezed the trigger, forever ending the pain and suffering of this unfortunate soul, a question was asked of him. A question
that would not be answered by him on this night.

“Please, mon ami. Please, my dying wish is to know what your real name is.”
“No one really knows, and they won’t.”

He squeezed the trigger, a loud pop echoed across the still night. This was the last noise the Frenchman heard before it all became complete
darkness. The Boyfriend walked away from the body, leaving the two brass cartridges lying on the ground. He whistled the song as he walked away
from the body, the Pancake house, and the unfortunate events of this night. The moon finally began to show through the clouds, white light
cascaded everything in its brilliance. And then, the clouds began to roll in again. The Boyfriend was not bothered by the death of his counterpart,
this professional.

Maureen had said, “You live by the sword, you die by the sword.”
And the Boyfriend replied, “So it goes Maureen, so it goes.”