for the loan.”
“Motherfucker,” The bum thrust the knife at Marty, nearly stabbing him with it. Marty jerked back defensively.
“Hey, I’m sorry about borrowing your stuff without asking, but it’s all there, right on the overpass,” Marty said. “I had to use them to save the kid. If you saw me take the blankets, you must have seen that, too.”
The bum studied Marty with the goopy, glassy eyes of a hound. “Give me your stuff.”
“Your blankets are up there. Just go get them.”
“Give me your stuff.” The bum motioned to the gym bag. “I want your stuff.”
“No.”
“Motherfucker!” The bum poked the air between them with the knife. “Give me your stuff or I’ll stick you.”
Marty knew he would, too. But there was no way he was giving up his survival kit. Certainly not in exchange for a pile of piss-drenched rags he never wanted to begin with. No, he was not giving his pack up.
“You want it?” Marty asked, slipping it off his shoulders. “Fine, you can have it. Motherfucker.”
And with that, Marty lunged at him, holding the gym bag out directly in front of him. Marty pushed himself right into the point of bum’s knife, which sunk harmlessly into the bag.
The surprised bum staggered back and, just as he realized he’d lost his weapon, there was a loud crack and he spun around, shoved aside by some invisible linebacker.
It took a moment for Marty to figure out what happened, to make sense of the sound, the bum on the ground, the blood pooling underneath him.
He’d been shot.
Marty whirled around to see Buck marching up, holding the gun casually at his side, a cocky grimace on his face. “Never fear, the professional is here.”
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Marty immediately dropped his gym bag and knelt beside the bum, who was still alive, semi-conscious, groaning in pain. The wound was in his shoulder.
“I just saved your life,” Buck said, “you inconsiderate fuck.”
“I was handling it!” Marty tore open the man’s blood-soaked shirt, recoiling at the smell and the flea-bitten skin.
“You couldn’t handle your prick to piss.” Buck peered down at his victim.
Marty gently turned the man over and saw the exit wound. The bullet had passed right through him. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? He had no idea. Shit!
“You can’t just go around shooting people!” Marty yelled at him.
“I can shoot whoever I want whenever I want,” Buck replied casually. “I’m a licensed bounty hunter. Besides, this was self-defense.”
“He wasn’t threatening you,” Marty snapped. “Get me the first aid kit in my bag.”
“I was talking about your self defense, asshole,” Buck picked up the bag. “Did he or did he not threaten you with a knife?”
“I disarmed him!”
“Your method of disarming an individual is almost as impressive as your method of delivering a punch,” snorted Buck, dropping the bag dismissively, the knife still impaled in it, at Marty’s feet. “You’re owed a refund on your manhood.”
Marty unzipped the bag, tore open the plastic first aid kit, and flipped frantically through the ridiculously small brochure. Bee stings, blisters, broken arms—where the hell was the chapter on bullet wounds?
Buck sighed wearily. “What the fuck are you looking for?”
“Instructions!” Marty retorted. “How do I stop the bleeding?”
“Like this, dumb fuck.” Buck yanked the bum up into a sitting position, grabbed some gauze in each fist from the first aid kit, and applied pressure to both wounds. “Where have you been living?”
Marty looked at the two of them—the deranged, bleeding bum and the homicidal maniac who shot him—and stood up slowly on shaky knees.
“In another world,” Marty said, “and I’m anxious to get back.”
He snatched up his gym bag by one of the straps, plucked the steak knife out of it, and tossed it as far as he could. “You can keep the medical kit. You’re going to need it.”
“Where
“Motherfucker,” The bum thrust the knife at Marty, nearly stabbing him with it. Marty jerked back defensively.
“Hey, I’m sorry about borrowing your stuff without asking, but it’s all there, right on the overpass,” Marty said. “I had to use them to save the kid. If you saw me take the blankets, you must have seen that, too.”
The bum studied Marty with the goopy, glassy eyes of a hound. “Give me your stuff.”
“Your blankets are up there. Just go get them.”
“Give me your stuff.” The bum motioned to the gym bag. “I want your stuff.”
“No.”
“Motherfucker!” The bum poked the air between them with the knife. “Give me your stuff or I’ll stick you.”
Marty knew he would, too. But there was no way he was giving up his survival kit. Certainly not in exchange for a pile of piss-drenched rags he never wanted to begin with. No, he was not giving his pack up.
“You want it?” Marty asked, slipping it off his shoulders. “Fine, you can have it. Motherfucker.”
And with that, Marty lunged at him, holding the gym bag out directly in front of him. Marty pushed himself right into the point of bum’s knife, which sunk harmlessly into the bag.
The surprised bum staggered back and, just as he realized he’d lost his weapon, there was a loud crack and he spun around, shoved aside by some invisible linebacker.
It took a moment for Marty to figure out what happened, to make sense of the sound, the bum on the ground, the blood pooling underneath him.
He’d been shot.
Marty whirled around to see Buck marching up, holding the gun casually at his side, a cocky grimace on his face. “Never fear, the professional is here.”
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Marty immediately dropped his gym bag and knelt beside the bum, who was still alive, semi-conscious, groaning in pain. The wound was in his shoulder.
“I just saved your life,” Buck said, “you inconsiderate fuck.”
“I was handling it!” Marty tore open the man’s blood-soaked shirt, recoiling at the smell and the flea-bitten skin.
“You couldn’t handle your prick to piss.” Buck peered down at his victim.
Marty gently turned the man over and saw the exit wound. The bullet had passed right through him. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? He had no idea. Shit!
“You can’t just go around shooting people!” Marty yelled at him.
“I can shoot whoever I want whenever I want,” Buck replied casually. “I’m a licensed bounty hunter. Besides, this was self-defense.”
“He wasn’t threatening you,” Marty snapped. “Get me the first aid kit in my bag.”
“I was talking about your self defense, asshole,” Buck picked up the bag. “Did he or did he not threaten you with a knife?”
“I disarmed him!”
“Your method of disarming an individual is almost as impressive as your method of delivering a punch,” snorted Buck, dropping the bag dismissively, the knife still impaled in it, at Marty’s feet. “You’re owed a refund on your manhood.”
Marty unzipped the bag, tore open the plastic first aid kit, and flipped frantically through the ridiculously small brochure. Bee stings, blisters, broken arms—where the hell was the chapter on bullet wounds?
Buck sighed wearily. “What the fuck are you looking for?”
“Instructions!” Marty retorted. “How do I stop the bleeding?”
“Like this, dumb fuck.” Buck yanked the bum up into a sitting position, grabbed some gauze in each fist from the first aid kit, and applied pressure to both wounds. “Where have you been living?”
Marty looked at the two of them—the deranged, bleeding bum and the homicidal maniac who shot him—and stood up slowly on shaky knees.
“In another world,” Marty said, “and I’m anxious to get back.”
He snatched up his gym bag by one of the straps, plucked the steak knife out of it, and tossed it as far as he could. “You can keep the medical kit. You’re going to need it.”
“Where
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