The smell of smoke; the sound of rapid-succession gunfire; deafening howls and shrill voices piercing my eardrums; earlier some smart aleck Swatman launched a smoke projectile into the Hyman and Hyman Legal Counsel building on Johnson street in Ventura, California. Susie Bingham, Glenn Hyman's very pregnant and docile paralegal pulled her hair. "What are they doing?" she gasped.

"They're trying to do away with me," I said, as I pulled the latch on my MP38 submachine and then unloaded a volley of lead outside the office window building, showing the SWAT team I meant business. And then I dove for the leather couch which I had overturned with the help of Bingham. Bingham looked over at me, shaken.

"But I am still alive," she exclaimed, peering down at Mr. Hyman's bullet-riddled body on the floor, moored in a pool of blood and glass.

Immediately, I picked up my flashing android. It was the harried voice of Sergeant Michael Mowdy of the San Buenaventura Police Department. "Calm down, Grundy. Calm down," he said tensely. "I told them to hold fire."

"Why are they shooting?" I asked casually.

"Damn it, Gundry. You know full well why they were shooting; they heard gunshots from the inside. They assumed you killed everyone."

"Incorrect," I said, regaining my stamina. "I only wasted Hyman. Me and the paralegal are still alive. But we might not stay that way if you continue shooting up this place."

"Okay, okay," Sergeant Mowdy said coolly.

"Don't worry about anything. Nobody is going to shoot you, Grundy. We just want a peaceful solution to all this."

"I have some demands, Serge."

"And they will be met, absolutely. Just let me talk to Mrs. Bingham to make sure she is still alive."

"You," I said to the paralegal. "On your feet."

The paralegal was a good-looking lady of about 35 years of age, rosy cheeks, close-cropped hair, delicate features, sharp blue eyes, the works. "Yes," I could hear her speaking on the phone that was, naturally, on speaker.

"Mrs. Bingham, is this you?"

"Who else is she going to be, Serge," I hollered. "Mrs. Santa Clause?"

"Yes, it is me," the paralegal said.

"Is he telling the truth Bingham, is Mr. Hyman really dead?"

"Yes," the paralegal sobbed, peering down at the prone carcass on the floor once again. "Mr. Grundy came in here, they had a dispute, there was pushing and shoving."

"Look, it doesn't matter what happened, Mrs. Bingham. All that matters right now is your safety. We're going to get you out of there safely, and we're going to meet all of Mr. Grundy's demands."

I smiled. My first smile of the day. Finally, they were listening to me. You know life is funny. This time last year Joseph Hyman and I were the best of friends. We made an unlikely pair: Me, the highly decorated Iraq war veteran turned construction worker and Joseph Hyman, one of the most esteemed ambulance chasers in Ventura County. But Hyman didn't just chase ambulances, he also chased anyone he could make a nickel off, especially owners of large businesses. We had had a brilliant on-again, off-again business relationship. I would get myself a job--as a truck driver, waiter, teacher, construction worker--and then very soon some terrible injury would befall me. With the trucking gig I had herniated a disc carrying a 300-pound pallet; as a teacher I had slipped on a spilled bowl of clam chowder; and during construction work I was shot by a highly dysfunctional nail gun. Some of you might think this makes me a phony, or a bad person, but the way I saw it, I earned those lawsuits, every last one of them. None of my injuries were faked, all were one hundred percent suffered by me; that they were done deliberately by me was immaterial.

Hyman would never ask me any questions. It was always wink-wink, nudge-nudge, you know? And it always would work out beautifully for us both. In every instant, we settled for 60 grand. And we split the cut evenly. Living in Motel 6 and on Dell Taco daily, 30 grand was enough to last me a whole year, but it wasn't enough for Hyman's more lavish lifestyle. With this last case, the construction job, he reneged on our agreement, demanding 70-30! I couldn't believe it. I came over here with my submachine gun. Not really expecting to use it, but then Hyman's secretary heard our arguing, called the fuzz, Hyman kept mouthing off to me, telling me to go home, and I had had enough: I wasted him. One short, staccato burst to the chest. Boom-boom-boom-boom, and Hyman, my old friend and legal counsel, breathed his last breath of smoke-filled air.

The android was in my hands again. "Okay, Serge. Enough small talk. You know the paralegal's okay. So here are my demands...." The list was long but necessary I thought. One million dollars in unmarked cash. One helicopter with a trained pilot. One bar inside said jet airplane stocked with Old English and Steel Reserve beer. And a few Bolivian passports for the paralegal and me.

"That sounds entirely reasonable, Gundry. However, there are no landing strips for jets here. We will have to meet up at the airport in downtown Ventura?"

"Really? And how do we get there?" I asked suspiciously.

"Don't worry about it," Sergeant Mowdy said coolly, "We will drive you there ourselves."

"What's to keep you from arresting me?"

"You will have Mrs. Bingham as collateral, of course."

---

What do you know, you can never trust the fuzz. We were finally outside, the paralegal and me, and there was Sergeant Mowdy, a tall and gaunt looking specimen. I had the submachine gun trained on the paralegal. We made our way to the police van, and as soon as I got inside I felt dozens of fists and police nightsticks clobbering my face. Let me tell you, that was a terrible night! I awoke the next morning in Presbyterian hospital, my head throbbing but still a little goofy from all the Demerol they had pumped into me. My right arm was handcuffed to the bed. Up in front there were two armed plainclothesmen, keeping watch.

"You're going to do life for killing Hyman," said the plainclothesman who was still awake and watching CNN news coverage of the incident. "I hope you packed your toothbrush."

I waved off what the portly plainclothesman had said dismissively. "Yeah, but at least I didn't kill the paralegal," I said. "Hyman did me wrong. This was a crime of passion."

"By the time you have your first parole hearing Grundy," said the plainclothesman, clearly savoring being the bearer of bad news, "the year will be 2060. You will be 70 years old." He shook his thick, bull-like head repeatedly. "You have ruined your life, son."

He was right. I had indeed ruined my life. And how stupid I was for having trusted Sergeant Mowdy.

"Had you not wasted Hyman, you'd still be a free man, engaged in more noble pursuits."

Just then I saw a commercial. It was a loud boisterous voice. The man was wearing a large cowboy hat, spoke in a huge Texas drawl, and promised "the best representation in Ventura, California, if you have been the victim of an accident at work please call 555-497-6215..."

"Don't I know it," I said to the plainclothesman, wistfully.

By Jack Bristow

From: United States

Twitter: jackbristow18