Turbinado points a gun at me, says, bang bang, you’re dead, you’re ground beef. This might sound vicious and violent, and sometimes we had to be, but Turbinado and I went way back. Business partners, friends, drinking buddies, now we’d gotten into the business of being hitmen. He went by the name Turbinado though his real name was Charles. I hadn’t picked up a cool handle yet. I was still Chris. I considered making that Krist, give me a little bit of European or hipster flavor, but I hadn’t gotten around to it. Turbinado holds that gun at me, loaded with a full clip, makes like he’s going to kill me, and we laugh. I pick up my gun, point at him, say, I’m going to kill you, and he says, c’mon man, put that thing away before someone gets hurt.
I look at Turbinado and he’s wearing a black leather blazer, grey t-shirt, and Schwarzenegger-type Gargoyles. Me, I got on some too-tight blue jeans, $5 shades from Wal-Mart, and a tattered grey jacket from the Old Navy clearance aisle. Just a Turbinado wannabe. We hop into his tricked out gold ’74 Chevy Nova. Weapons in the trunk. Off to our hit where I’ll play backup and hang outside, I’ll play second fiddle, I’ll just be Chris.