Timmy, the thugs, and yours truly ended up at a small farm house at the end of town. It was a real modern place, if your Amish. No phones, no lights, no motor cars; not a single luxury. Like Robinson Crusoe, this place didn't have shit.
Thug number the first shot off a round, thug number two shot off his mouth. "Yo, Leslie... your hubby's here to save you," he said with a voice full of uneducated brut. A really bruttish brit.
"Mr. McGaven, why don't you lead the way." Being that I was surrounded by two thugs that looked like they had magnum revolvers with the magnum condoms to match, I decided to wait on the heroic stand thing.
I made my way to the door, and gave it the old shave and a hair cut. Leslie Lankour opened up enough to show some exposed leg, and an exposed sawed off. On reflex, I raised my hands high and began reciting the Lord's prayer. "Oh, God, who art so great, why does my life suck?"
"Ace McGaven, I see you've met the former Mr. Leslie Lankour." She had that shotgun trained in the general direction of Timmy the Limey. Tim, for his part, played it cool.
In a calm voice, he says, "baby, I asked Ace to take me to you. You worried the dickens out of me."
Leslie looked in a panic. Panicky people with guns are not the most rational. Life and death decisions, as a rule, shouldn't be made without a clear frame of mind. In order to release the pressure, I decided to play the game straight.
"Leslie, I just spent an hour and a half car ride with Timothy." Yes, the Limey and I were on a first name basis now. "He does love you, but his job doesn't always allow him to show it. Why don't you talk it out with him. You can keep the shotgun, and if you aren't happy with what you're hearing, then shot him."
I hadn't asked the Limey about that, but I did know he was desperate/foolish enough to try anything to get this work of art goddess back into this sheets. Men have a habit of looking at the bright side of sex, as long as they're having it, life's happy and bright. Take it from me, someone who pitches his pup tent on the edge of twilight.
Leslie and Timmy Lankour talked for about an hour. She did a lot of crying. She did a lot of yelling. In fact, after about an hour, the Limey had to vacate the house for his afternoon tea time.
The thugs, being thugs, just stood around liking like human cider blocks. The limey offered me a cup and saucer, I told him sure, but to hold any more lumps. He told me he'd heard that one before.
As we sat there in the dirt drive way, the Limey opened up. "That bird has really flew the coop. She's completely out of sorts." Leslie hadn't told me all the reasons for her decision to leave Timmy, but I admitted she had seemed alittle out of whack during our first meeting.
That's when we saw her silhouette by the door. A letter worked its way out of the mail hole. The shadow of a shotgun was then pointed to the shadow of her chin. A loud pop echoed out of the house and through the corn field. What once was the shadow of a head was no more. Leslie Lankour had moved her game of hide a seek to the next celestial plain.
Grabbing the note from the grasp of a strong breeze, I read it aloud. "Dear world, fuck this." Four words, and it seemed to say it all. Goodbye, Mrs. Lankour.
