In all of Allister's life, he had only been shot twice. This left him scarred with two holes and a feeling of inadequacy. If drunk enough, he would always say, "Shoulda been three." Bullet holes were badges and Allister only had two-making him feel like the runty scout whose only merits came in basket weaving and smelting.
Sure, Allister had travelled the world over, ate with kings, ran with a pride of lions. But, what bullet holes did he have to show for it? The two that he did have seemed laughable and constantly taunted him from his chest. Badges? Perhaps to some. Embarrasing reminders of how not to clean two firearms? Most certainly to Allister.
Of course, if you did not know of Allister's gun cleaning shortcomings, you would have thought that he had been in a couple of duels or a World War. But, to Allister, these badges were false and the only seeming way to remove them was to get shot by someone else-in the same locations (right hip, left pectoral). But, if that was too much to ask, four or five more bullets holes anywhere on his body would probably distract him from the fraudulent two.
Allister bought a pair of gloves and was soon wearing his way through them, slapping and challenging whomever he could. But alas, the days of freewheeling duels were long over. Slapping someone with a glove merely brought a fist to the eye. And, no matter how black, the eye would inevitably return to proper skin tone.
Honor seemed to elude Allister. He was always two steps behind it. He would read the newspapers to find where the latest crimes had taken place and sprint there in the hopes that he would catch at least the end of danger. But no. The threat had always long been squelched by the time he arrived and, in all seriousness, were done even before the paper had been printed.
As he got older and technology advanced along with him, he bought a police scanner. Entire days were spent with his ear glued to the scanner. This proved a more capable way of getting him to the scene on time. But, no matter how heated the gunfire, he always walked away disappointed. He began slowly pacing back and forth in the middle of the two sides. Nothing. Stood still. Nothing. Chased bullets. Nothing. Stood in front of a pistol. Somehow it always veered to one side and flew past Allister, finding a luckier target.
This is how Allister, in his eightieth year of life, found himself walking stiff-legged to the front door of his home. He reached for the doorknob, but hesitated. For a full twenty minutes he stood in place, praying silently for God to send an angel down with a gattling gun and riddle Allister's body with bullets. After twenty minutes, he reached for the doorknob again and just then he felt something collide with his shoulderblade. He looked to the sky for thanks and felt the pelting of bullet after bullet. He dropped to his knees and turned around to see the face of his heavenly assailant just in time to see the last egg leave the runty twelve year old's hand and collide with Allister's forehead. A dozen eggs broken a dozen times leaking a dozen yolks and leaving no lasting marks. The boy cackled and Allister collapsed and lapsed into unconsciousness, staying frozen in this position on his porch for over a week, dreaming happily about the bullets that would never come.
Sure, Allister had travelled the world over, ate with kings, ran with a pride of lions. But, what bullet holes did he have to show for it? The two that he did have seemed laughable and constantly taunted him from his chest. Badges? Perhaps to some. Embarrasing reminders of how not to clean two firearms? Most certainly to Allister.
Of course, if you did not know of Allister's gun cleaning shortcomings, you would have thought that he had been in a couple of duels or a World War. But, to Allister, these badges were false and the only seeming way to remove them was to get shot by someone else-in the same locations (right hip, left pectoral). But, if that was too much to ask, four or five more bullets holes anywhere on his body would probably distract him from the fraudulent two.
Allister bought a pair of gloves and was soon wearing his way through them, slapping and challenging whomever he could. But alas, the days of freewheeling duels were long over. Slapping someone with a glove merely brought a fist to the eye. And, no matter how black, the eye would inevitably return to proper skin tone.
Honor seemed to elude Allister. He was always two steps behind it. He would read the newspapers to find where the latest crimes had taken place and sprint there in the hopes that he would catch at least the end of danger. But no. The threat had always long been squelched by the time he arrived and, in all seriousness, were done even before the paper had been printed.
As he got older and technology advanced along with him, he bought a police scanner. Entire days were spent with his ear glued to the scanner. This proved a more capable way of getting him to the scene on time. But, no matter how heated the gunfire, he always walked away disappointed. He began slowly pacing back and forth in the middle of the two sides. Nothing. Stood still. Nothing. Chased bullets. Nothing. Stood in front of a pistol. Somehow it always veered to one side and flew past Allister, finding a luckier target.
This is how Allister, in his eightieth year of life, found himself walking stiff-legged to the front door of his home. He reached for the doorknob, but hesitated. For a full twenty minutes he stood in place, praying silently for God to send an angel down with a gattling gun and riddle Allister's body with bullets. After twenty minutes, he reached for the doorknob again and just then he felt something collide with his shoulderblade. He looked to the sky for thanks and felt the pelting of bullet after bullet. He dropped to his knees and turned around to see the face of his heavenly assailant just in time to see the last egg leave the runty twelve year old's hand and collide with Allister's forehead. A dozen eggs broken a dozen times leaking a dozen yolks and leaving no lasting marks. The boy cackled and Allister collapsed and lapsed into unconsciousness, staying frozen in this position on his porch for over a week, dreaming happily about the bullets that would never come.
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