Number Nine

Click. Armed. Or was it his arm? He could have sworn he felt the impact. Somehow, he knew just how it felt to be the hammer, with one chance to pound the metal casing and send a bullet to wherever bullets go. Sighing, as if he had exerted his own muscle power, the gun became an extension of his arm. Fire-arm. It was a part of him. They made a blood oath when he shot himself through the toe about an hour ago; he and his pistol, they were in this together, to the end. The cold steel texture of what was once a handle went numb, warmed and smoothed by the flesh and blood of his hand. The blood pumping through his veins now flowed through the grip, and finally into the chamber, fueling each bullet and preparing it for the long, perilous journey ahead. His heart was pumping faster and faster by the second to accommodate for the excess blood that he needed, although he was well aware that it might spill before it went to good use. The thought didn't bother him, however; soon enough, he'd be pumping lead faster than, well, a speed bullet. Fuck. It's hard to keep the Superman analogies coming when you know that you very well might die.
Ideas are bulletproof, he reminded himself. A single bullet starts a revolution. One hundred bullets start one hundred revolutions. Turntables usually run at forty-five revolutions per minute. That's almost half of one hundred. What am I doing? He counted the bullets in the chamber. Five shots. One went through my toe. They weren't kidding about this being a six-shooter, huh? A single bead of sweat fell from where his hand became the gun, landing right on the toe that he had shot an hour earlier. Leave it to me to salt my own goddamn wounds.
He breathed in deep, and checked his watch. 9:43am. Good time for an uprising.

Feb. '06