michael

I'm spinning. I'm kicking. I'm doing incredible martial arts. Suddenly the door to my apartment bursts open—"What are YOU doing here?" I ask, but you cannot see to whom I am speaking. Only that they are wearing a coat, broad-brimmed hat, and a distinctive pair of gloves, embroidered with peacocks on the back of palm. One of these grips a revolver, dark and shining. My earlier proficiency in karate is suddenly useless. You can see it in my face. But then, like a cloud passing over me, my expression changes. I assume a cool looking stance. I am not going to go out like a chump. And here's the thing: I'm REALLY fucking good at martial arts. I step forward, arms at the ready, and dodge my assailant's first bullet