The Great Carrollton Heist
Touched down in ATL at 6:15PM. Touched base with my lead trainer to confirm she was going to be arriving shortly. I now pace behind the rental car for about 45min. She arrives and we introduce ourselves. She is my mentor and nice. I am her student and eager to learn. The drive is, as usual, filled with newly acquainted chit-chat about backgrounds, experience, what it's like to live where you live. I did not inform her of my past duties of a being a rodeo clown in southern Canada. Nor do I mention I'm secretly studying to be a belly dancer. The truth is written all over my face and the scar over my ribs tells the biggest tale with little room for correction or contradiction. I am not ready to divulge the urge to writhe in the restaurants of Ft Worth for change and cigarettes. I am packing a gun, though, I won't be put in that position again.
< background >
I was traveling, as usual, feet above the floor, skimming the surface, as it were, trying to become fixated on the spot in the center of my field of vision that allows me the luxury of not seeing the obvious. As the time came for me to strike my pose my legs gave way and my back broke. The vertebrae separated themselves to the tune of 7 whacks to the knees. I swear that won't happen again. Her gun went-off, I'm left shooting blanks forever. Things took a turn for the worse by the time I found myself on the floor contorted and retarded ready for the axe to fall. When it fell, off with my head. And here I am headless, brainless, clueless. The memory is here somewhere. When I look at a picture of myself when I'm old will I see those bad memories? I wish I could take it back to owner and demand a refund on the pain of a broken back and bruised knees. There is a lesson here that I learned...carry the gun...always. When the conversation veers too far to the right I'll draw my cold steel. It's as cold as the steel in my back, so I'm cautious and ask the driver not to hit too many bumps, please.< / background >
So the car moves-on and the talk is getting cheaper by the minute. I have my hand around my gun stroking the shaft and feeling it warm-up from my body heat. The palm of my right hand fits the curve of the pearl handle perfectly, this was made for me, so I must use it. My right-handed fingers lightly touch the opposite side of the pearlized grip. It's a masterpiece of accuracy and destruction. I'm not nervous this time because once you the first you're ready for your last to rush up to you and stop millimeters from your nose and smile. There's a twisting road and the eyes dart to stay alert of the changing course. I'm nervous now because the thought crosses my mind that I might be on the wrong path. I think I got the wrong information and I 'm starting to sweat. This one doesn't seem so bad and could lead a good long life without too many mistakes. I'm listening to her tell this story and veer all over the road, and it's interesting that she thinks I'm interested. I don't ever let her see the right side of my face, not the shaft of gun pushed deep into my right-sided pocket. I swear if I pushed it any harder my pocket would tear and the situation would greatly increase it's chances of becoming worse still. But, it seems, the conversation may become two-sided afterall, but I'm not interested in being interested. We're almost there and we're both hungry.
There is not a bar in this town and you can't smoke in any establishment that serves food. What do these people do to relieve the stress? What's the filter if it's not alcohol? What do they use to strain out the bad stuff in life? Or to enhance the good? They DO have a Mellow Mushroom and their pizza is phenomenal to me. Better then the Applebee's that we had yesterday. And several times more gracious than the smoked turkey sandwich that tried to kill me from Pearl's. Right now I'm hungry.
The training is going very well. I knew more than I thought I did and I'm training more than I should be allowed to. I think I'll be fine.
n/p-Smashing Pumpkins: Adore
n/p-Aiport5: Tower In The Fountain Of Sparks
< background >
I was traveling, as usual, feet above the floor, skimming the surface, as it were, trying to become fixated on the spot in the center of my field of vision that allows me the luxury of not seeing the obvious. As the time came for me to strike my pose my legs gave way and my back broke. The vertebrae separated themselves to the tune of 7 whacks to the knees. I swear that won't happen again. Her gun went-off, I'm left shooting blanks forever. Things took a turn for the worse by the time I found myself on the floor contorted and retarded ready for the axe to fall. When it fell, off with my head. And here I am headless, brainless, clueless. The memory is here somewhere. When I look at a picture of myself when I'm old will I see those bad memories? I wish I could take it back to owner and demand a refund on the pain of a broken back and bruised knees. There is a lesson here that I learned...carry the gun...always. When the conversation veers too far to the right I'll draw my cold steel. It's as cold as the steel in my back, so I'm cautious and ask the driver not to hit too many bumps, please.< / background >
So the car moves-on and the talk is getting cheaper by the minute. I have my hand around my gun stroking the shaft and feeling it warm-up from my body heat. The palm of my right hand fits the curve of the pearl handle perfectly, this was made for me, so I must use it. My right-handed fingers lightly touch the opposite side of the pearlized grip. It's a masterpiece of accuracy and destruction. I'm not nervous this time because once you the first you're ready for your last to rush up to you and stop millimeters from your nose and smile. There's a twisting road and the eyes dart to stay alert of the changing course. I'm nervous now because the thought crosses my mind that I might be on the wrong path. I think I got the wrong information and I 'm starting to sweat. This one doesn't seem so bad and could lead a good long life without too many mistakes. I'm listening to her tell this story and veer all over the road, and it's interesting that she thinks I'm interested. I don't ever let her see the right side of my face, not the shaft of gun pushed deep into my right-sided pocket. I swear if I pushed it any harder my pocket would tear and the situation would greatly increase it's chances of becoming worse still. But, it seems, the conversation may become two-sided afterall, but I'm not interested in being interested. We're almost there and we're both hungry.
There is not a bar in this town and you can't smoke in any establishment that serves food. What do these people do to relieve the stress? What's the filter if it's not alcohol? What do they use to strain out the bad stuff in life? Or to enhance the good? They DO have a Mellow Mushroom and their pizza is phenomenal to me. Better then the Applebee's that we had yesterday. And several times more gracious than the smoked turkey sandwich that tried to kill me from Pearl's. Right now I'm hungry.
The training is going very well. I knew more than I thought I did and I'm training more than I should be allowed to. I think I'll be fine.
n/p-Smashing Pumpkins: Adore
n/p-Aiport5: Tower In The Fountain Of Sparks
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