Peering from out around the corner for no more than three tenths of a second, his eyes had registered the entire scene. Bastard Jackson was twenty yards away, discount blue suit, fortyfive caliber under his arm. My partner was cuffed before him in a swivel office chair, her feet bound in rope, playing out some sadistic secret scene.
"this shit can't go on."
My squirt gun pulsated with a warm green glow. Action Satisfaction Guaranteed!
Slo-mo ripples carried me effortlessly across the hall, pushing off sideways on the wall, spinning as I aimed the squirter and squeezed.
Peripheral radar automatically notified Bastard Jackson's jacket to flap upwards allowing his pneumatic hand access to the 45 that lie between us. Disco danger fired from the barrel of his gun, sending snippets of jive careening off the walls around me.
My slo-mo ration was running low and third speed time would be kicking back in any second...now...
Sound snaps like a rubber band in my cochleas as I fire off the last of my round, the squirter now clear and plastic in my hands. Time adjusts itself and I find myself unsure of the outcome, swimming through a samurai cliche.
Bastard Jackson implodes as the contradictory non-sequiters I fired into his frontal lobe tear down his entire reason, his very purpose, his essential existence.