Interviews and Interrogations

"Why should I let you live?"

It's a tough question to answer under the glare of his stainless forty-five. It's a giant cyclops in his hand, and I'm just a sailor stranded on an island a long way from home. Granted, I'm no tragic hero, but tragedy and me, we ain't exactly strangers.

The hero part? Not so much.

As far as interviews go, this one isn't even the worst I've had. Well, okay, it's more of an interrogation, really, but we're splittin' hairs with that distinction.

Kinda like how he's gonna split my hairs right along my scalp with them big damn bullets any minute now.

I decide to redirect. Stall. Truth is, I don't have a good answer for him. I'm guessing it's rhetorical, really. Maybe he is trying to make me suffer. Joke's on him. This is just another Tuesday.

"Kid, I hate to interrupt you're big badguy routine, but you ain't the first to point a gun at me."

"Yeah? What if I'm the last?"

He's nervous. Maybe even scared. I think this might be the first time he's looked a man in the eye and flirted with pulling the trigger.

It gets easier, but sleep sometimes gets worse.

I sigh.

The kid isn't really a kid. He's in his early twenties, grew up rough. I tracked him down to this empty house in a part of town nobody with good sense visits, especially at night. For me, he wasn't difficult to find.

He smells like the perfume of the girl he left in the Holiday Inn dumpster.

"Looks like your mind is made up. Nothin' I can do about it, you got the drop on me."

"Yeah, old man, don't you fuckin forget it."

I sigh again, shrug my shoulders. I decide to play this out, see where it goes.

"Mind if I have a last smoke?"

He looks at me like I'm the one with an eye in the middle of my forehead.

He stammers. "... are you fuckin' serious?"

"Am I laughin, kid?"

He's rattled. However this shit played out in his mind, this is not the way he thought it would go.

"No tricks."

"Wouldn't dream of it." I open up my cheap suitcoat, keeping my hands well clear of the holstered Glock at my side. I reach over to my chest pocket, grab the Winstons and my Zippo. I never break eye contact as I light up. I shake out another, offer it to him.

"You think I'm stupid?" He says, and I can hear the tremble in his voice. I can smell the fear.

It's fucking delicious.

I put the smokes back in my pocket, and I take a long drag. I make it about halfway through the cig before he breaks what I think is a pretty comfortable silence.

"Fuck this."

He pulls the trigger, and I feel the slug smack my forehead. I rock back on my heels, and the last thing I see before it's lights out is the paint-peeled ceiling of this stupid abandoned house.

I come to a little later, and my head fucking hurts.

The kid is going through my pockets, and he doesn't notice that the dead guy isn't quite as dead as he should be.

I smile and grab the kid by the throat.

He's too shocked to do anything but stare. He doesn't even reach for the gun he tucked into his waistband. He can't believe what he's seeing, I mean, Jesus, my brains are all over the floor.

It's ok, I grew new ones.

Traumatic healing is a little slower than it used to be. I'm a hell of a lot older than I used to be, too, so I guess that's fair. I'm guessing I was unconscious for a full minute this time. Used to, I'd be back on my feet in ten seconds, tops.

Lucky for me that only this kid's gun was silver, not his bullets.

I tighten my grip, and his eyes bulge.

"I think I know the answer," I say, slowly standing, never releasing my grip. He's trying to pull my hand off his neck, but he's learning that I'm stronger than I look.

He's confused. Part of it is not knowing what question I'm talking about, part of it is how the fuck can an old cop who just had his head hollowed by a .45 round through his head be talking to him.

I get it.

"You asked why you should let me live. I know the answer."

I let my eyes go gold. I let my teeth grow long, pointed. My mouth becomes just a little bit of a snout, but not too much. I still want the last word with this fucker.

"You shouldn't."

I squeeze until something crunches and pops, but before he dies, I make sure he sees my true face.