They’re coming for me, I know they are. I have to get out of here. I have to.

His hand shifts nervously under his poncho as he watches one of the bartenders eye the other, reaching under the bar for something. Odds were more than even it was a gun, probably a sawed off 12 gauge. Might ’cause some property damage, maybe even take out some of the innocents just wantin’ a beer at the cantina, but they don’t much worry about things like that this side of the border. As long as you’re paid up with the right people you can do as damn well as you please, including amputating a guy from the waist up. It’s that look on his face that really gives it away though. Banditos, mexicans, everyone born south of the boarder gets that look when they’re about to kill. A dangerous ferocity in them that gives them this kind of tunnel vision and something resembling invincibility. But something like, ain’t close enough.

The Westerner draws his twin rugers and moves to his right all at once firing a couple rounds off before the shotgun can even get to waist level. The two bartenders fly back against the wall as the The Westerner slides across one of the tables and lands hard on the dusty wood floors.

Landed too hard. Dislocated something, shoulder’s on fire. Gotta fight past it. There’s more of ’em in the back, and some of the customers might look to take matters in their own hands.

He’s not far off the score as two of the customers take to throwing their beer pitchers, while a third much younger and brasher than the rest draws a pistol of his own. Two to the chest without hesitation; The child may have been too young to know this, but you never point a gun at someone unless you plan to kill them. More employees from the back counter, reaching for the sawed off, but stumbling over each other trying to grab it.

Your mistake.

He doesn’t risk it, he unloads what remains of his ammunition into them watching them fly back, one into the kitchen, and one against the wall in the corner behind the bar. But he’s not out of the frying pan, he can hear them outside and he knows he’s in the fire. Mexican army is organizing outside, screaming something in mexican he can’t understand. He’d been worried they’d find him, he did his best to blend in, but a gunfight in an otherwise peaceful cantina was bound to attract attention. No ammo to speak of he takes up the sawed off shotgun and chuckles to himself as he sees a second holstered in a docker’s clutch. He’ll make his stand.

It ends here. Now. Either they’re going down or I am.


Customers at the Taco Time Cantina had themselves a brief scare with an armed gunman – thankfully he chose mostly harmless air-soft guns as the weapons of choice. It’s uncertain what prompted the assailant, one Greg McConnell, to go into this violent outburst. Several eyewitnesses say he seemed disoriented, unsure or unaware of his surroundings. Constable Falkner was the one who made the arrest, and exited the building covered in sour cream and salsa, rumored to have been shot from the large guns used to dispense the condiments on tacos. While no serious injuries were sustained, Cranbrook Crown Prosecutor Bill Henderson says “We know he’s commited a crime, obviously, we’re just not sure what we’re charging Mr. McConnell with yet.” Longtime friend and room-mate of the 25 year old says “This doesn’t surprise me at all.” saying “He’s always been off his [mind] it was only a matter of time before he grabbed a condiment and did some serious damage.”

Tod Demchuk – Cranbrook Daily Townsman

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17,781 Words Later

February 27, 2009

See, you might be under the impression that I’ve been lazy. That because I haven’t updated my blog in over a month (and a real update a month or so before that) that I have fallen behind in making sure to be putting my words to paper (or keyboard as it were… with some monitor thrown in there as well) but you would be wrong.

Instead I’ve been writing a novel.

That’s right. A fucking novel.

I’ve probably mentioned this before but in case I haven’t my sister, who is actually my ex-girlfriend’s sister, convinced me just before Christmas to actually get off my ass and publish something, especially since I had the manuscripts for two full novels in my house. Well the manuscripts were shit to say the least, but the ideas… now those… those were golden. I had actually managed to form quite the compelling story. Unfortunately I managed to bury it under mounds of horse shit. And by horse shit I mean really atrocious writing. Broken sentences, sentence fragments, using “the” when I meant “they” or “Him” (you’ve probably seen that a few times on here… but let me tell you how annoying it is for me to be re-reading this potential gem only to find “the road after they with haste unseen”).

It’s been going well. I have to say reading some pretty helpful writing tips from my all time favourite author Stephen King has been a big help. Now if I can manage to stop dipping into the world of the Gunslinger I’d be all set.

I really didn’t intend to. I had no idea that what I was writing all those years ago could be explained with “Gunslinger” and “Ka” (though my translation of the word Ka is slightly different…. for him it’s fate, for me it’s God’s whisper) it just kind of happened. Maybe it’s something I’ll work out, I might be able to come up with my own… thing, but for the time being I have made sure to credit him at the outset of my novel.

Hell even if I don’t manage to work it into my own thing, he at least deserves a fond thank you.

Outside of writing my novel thing are going fairly well. I’ve been having to make a lot of big decisions lately, and I’ve had some pretty heavy stuff dropped in my lap. It’s hard to think of where to pick up, and in all honesty I’m pretty bagged, so I’ll leave it at this and with  any luck I’ll get around to updating some time this yea- week.

/Beware The Bear
Greg, after I got a standing ovation for my rendition of ‘Dancing Queen’ originally performed by ABBA officially upstaging him at the bar “You can be my wingman any time.”
Me: “Bullshit, you can be mine.”