I had nothing in my holster but lint, and the tattooed dame drew her gun. Got the impression she didn’t want to talk.
Threw myself behind a diner table and flipped it. Now I was a knight with a shield, but I still had no sword. A crash of thunder, and a hole punched through the wood of the table. Something whizzed past my ear. Figures. Not even my shield was worth a damn.
“Cool it, toots,” I said. “Let’s talk.”
Another gunshot. This one blew through the table and knocked my hat off. A real Wild West gunslinger, this one. I knew she was a devil in a hellfire red dress the second she walked into my office. But the second I heard her angelic voice, I thought she was something in-between heaven and hell. And those tattoos–seraphim on one arm, fallen ones on the other. A right-side cross, an upside-down cross. Clearly she needed direction on which way to go.
She picked the wrong path.
I kicked the table with both feet, launching it at the woman. She shot it as though shooting flying furniture would eliminate its gravity, and I heard her grunt when the table made impact. Her gun hit the floor–or so it sounded like, so I quickly rose and–
Fell to my knees. I looked down to see a pool of wine staining my shirt. When did I spill wine? And why was the stain growing?
I noticed the third hole in the table.
Ah. Right. Fair enough.
Today’s three random prompt categories were, “Lint,” “Hard boiled,” and, “A tattoo.”
Not so heroic after all.