|Posted on March 6, 2011 at 9:28 PM|
Dames and guns. Oh buddy, don’t get me started. They’re a lot alike. Smooth curves, form and function, enjoyable to fondle, and either can put a smile on your face. Ergonomics aside, without a firm grip and an minimum of respect, either can bitch-slap you too. With both, the bite is worse than the bark: stitches optional. And the scars, physical or emotional, they’re with you for the long haul.
I’ll admit I can’t live without either. I prefer the company of both, one under my pillow, and the other on it, and I’m a happy camper but, put one in the hand of the latter; Trust me, don’t go there. Think tsunami at a bar mitzvah.
I had been asleep for only a few hours when I was awakened by her presence in my room. I didn’t hear anything, but my nose can detect a flatulent spider at fifty paces. I say her, unless he was wearing Chanel no. 5. She was packing heat also. I love the scent of Hoppes no. 9 gun oil on a women.
I heard the click-click of the revolver. How did I know it was a revolver? Because I know guns even better than dames. Their voices are unique.
Take a derringer for example. Pull the hammer back and all you hear is a soft “tic”, the sear snapping under the trigger cam. An automatic has its own spiel, “slick-kah-shluck”. But a revolver, used correctly, and I’m referring to single action mode, only knows two syllables. Hammer reaches half-travel, rotating the cylinder to a fresh round, “click”, and at full pull, “click”, ready to rumble.
I had two questions for her.
“What’s your name, honey?”
“I’ll ask the questions, Morgan.”
“May I at least sit up and talk to a face?”
“Ease your hands out slowly, one at a time. My trigger finger doesn’t appreciate quick moves.”
I slid them out, palms wide, and slowly sat up facing her. At only three paces away I knew she couldn’t miss hitting the boiler room, possibly twice before I could get a mitt on her.
What little light came through the hotel blinds allowed only a faint silhouette. She was tall and slender with chin-length hair. Below the dripping trench coat slender calves disappeared at the foot of the bed.
The shaft of light reflecting off the pistol confirmed it to be a revolver, around .45 caliber, and from its rather hefty, non-fluted-cylinder and the way her long, slender fingers engulfed the grips, I was ready to ask question number two.
“Is that a .455 Webley, model 2, Bulldog?”
“Yeah, what are you clairvoyant?”
“No, just a sleepy gun nut.”
“Remember the part about me asking the questions?”
“Okay, right,” I said, sweeping my right hand through my hair, before placing it next to my pillow. “At least tell me your name and I’ll listen, Okay?”
“Ease that hand away from the pillow, Morgan.”
I slowly placed both hands in my lap.
“I’m Michelle Logan, and…”
“Jip,” I said, “Please call me Jip, and just a word of advice before we go any further.”
“Make it count, Jip.”
“The bullets in that British Bulldog were designed for a gun nearly three times its size.”
“I thought you said advice, not a history lesson.”
“I know that’s not your pistol. It’s probably your husbands. No gun shop would sell that piece to a lady.”
“The point, please Professor?”
“If, or when you ever fire that hand-cannon, it would be best to grip it with both hands. It’s got a nasty bark, enough to do more than smear your lipstick. That‘s it, I‘m all ears.”
“I’m here for two things, Jip.”
She slipped the pistol from one hand to the other as she unbuttoned the trench coat. The barrel was now pointing at my crotch: she had my full attention, suddenly I felt like saying yes to anything.
“I want you to help me disappear.”
“And the other thing?”
“I need to stay here tonight.”
“If I say yes, can I get some sleep?”
“Oh.. Also, I had to leave my apartment rather quickly. May, I borrow some pajamas?”
I pointed at the dresser. “Second drawer.”
She chose the blue with white stripes. With her back to me she set the Bulldog on the dresser, and dropped the coat, revealing a gorgeous figure, white lace panties and no bra. The pajamas hung on her frame like pleated curtains.
“There’s an extra pillow on the closet shelf,” I offered.
Returning with it, she set the gun on the night stand, tossed the pillow next to mine and hopped in, pulling the cover over her shoulder with her back to me.
“I’m cold, and I’m scared…would you…?”
I slid over next to her and draped my arm over her, my hand resting on her shoulder.
She lay there trembling and sobbing for a few minutes. When they both seemed to fade, she turned to face me, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, rolled back pressing against me, while cupping my hand in hers against her neck.
“If that was for letting you spend the night, it wasn’t necessary. Nice, but…”
“It wasn’t. It was for calling me a lady.”
In just a few minutes she was snoring like a litter of puppies.
Dames. It never fails. Just when I get a little ahead of the money game, and have the time for a little rest and relaxation with a fishing pole and a cooler of beer, some dame drops a wrench in my well-oiled machine. I fell asleep thinking about having SUCKER tattooed on my forehead.