"Arre you ready?" Those three words broke

"Arre you ready?" Those three words broke my inatentive stare. "Sure." I replied as I adjusted my suit cuff. We walked up the stairs, and knocked on the door, and waited. Soon the

international arms dealers posing as fashion police would be in for a fine surprise. My tailored suit gave me slack to kick the door in. My partner was primed for a gunfight, but

not for a fashion model's pose-off. I'd have to carry the day AGAIN. The look on their face when I came super hard with double jazz hands almost made the rain of gunfire that cut

through the air, adding to the mood, seem even more... emotional. I don't know, call me sentimental, but the smell of gunpowder has always made me feel just a little bit

nostalgic for that time I was in the Civil War looking over a battlefield of shredded corpses and the dysentery in the camps. Oh wait, that was a reenactment,

to work at the beef jerky factory. Fantasizing about shredded corpses at work is dangerous. A pepper flake from the "Hot" department flew in my eye. I screamed and zig-zagged

over and around the conveyer belts, getting shoeprints all over the dried beef. I spotted a vat of water a few feet away, and was about to jump head first into it, when suddenly

the Pemmican Indian rode in on a buffalo. "I'm here to rescue you," he said. But then Slim Jim burst out of his office, pistol in hand. "The hostage is mine, Pemmy ol' pal!" I hid

in the shadows and saw both of them die. One from an arrow and the other from a bullet. As they fell to the floor, I crawled over and took their wallets. I proceeded to walk away.