Hi everyone. I'm a long-time writer, but this is my first foray into STEEMIT. I usually wrote science fiction, but this is an exception that I think you will enjoy.

THE LIST addresses the consequences when the System does not hold bad men accountable for their abuses. In this case, it is unpunished police brutality that leads to a victim's ultimate act of “self-help” to right the wrong done against him. There will be blood...

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Sandy Sandfort

Bob Hanson took his left hand off the steering wheel and flexed his fingers. He returned his hand to the wheel and repeated the exercise with his right hand. He had been holding the wheel much too tightly. He had to relax, he'd be rolling into Houston about noon. That gave him some time to take care of details and eat a bite before “show time.” Tonight was the first stop on “The Outlaws World Tour.”

“'The Outlaws,' that's what we called ourselves, Hans, The Outlaws.” Bob had addressed the aging wire-haired terrier sitting in the front passenger seat. Hans cocked his head to one side, which Bob decided to interpret as an invitation to go on. At least it's better than talking to myself, he thought. He straightened up in his seat, drew a breath and continued.

“It started as sort of an informal group or club or something. Different guys, and even a girl or two, drifted in and out of The Outlaws. The core, though, was just the three of us, Davie, Chas and me; we had been friends since childhood.” Bob looked over at Hans. He caught him doing that mysterious staring-intently-at-nothing thing, that dogs do. Hans sensed Bob's eyes on him and looked back up at him.

“So anyway, it started in junior high. I think they call that 'middle school' or something, now. One day, the three of us, plus three or four other guys showed up at school wearing pretty much the same outfit. We all were wearing white dress shirts, light slacks and white tennis shoes. It wasn't planned, it was just an accident. Well, sort of an accident. It was Friday, and we had all run out of clean 'regular' shirts.”

Hans cocked his head again. Hans' original name was “Han,” after Han Solo from Star Wars. He was a smart dog and he seemed to actually listen to what Bob said to him. It had seemed strange to Bob until he read the story of Clever Hans. He was a horse that people once thought could do arithmetic. Even the horse's owner belied Hans' had math abilities. It was later determined that indeed Clever Hans was clever, but in quite a different way. Hans used his hoof to count out the answer to a math equation. What he was actually doing was responding to his owner's unconscious body language. When he reached the right number, his master would relax. Clever Hans read the body clues and stopped counting. Voilà, Clever Hans was a math genius.

Bob had been so taken with the story, he changed the terrier's name from Han to Hans. Hans didn't seem to mind. Bob knew Hans only seemed to follow his monologues. Still, it was nice to think aloud in front of an “attentive” listener.

“With all those guys dressed alike, I guess we looked kind of like a gang. A well dressed gang but a gang,” Bob continued. “Then someone said we must all be 'going steady.' He said we looked like a bunch of mo's. 'Mo was our slang term for homosexual.” Bob glanced at Hans whom he knew to be extremely heterosexual, but Hans was cool with it.

“So Davie pulls out his sunglasses, puts them on. He says, 'Hey, I'm not one you 'mo's, I'm just a cool guy in shades and whites.' Well, we all pulled out our sunglasses and put them on too. We hooted and howled in gales of laughter. So the Shades and Whites 'conspiracy' was born. We owed to dress the same way on Monday and wear our 'shades' in class.” Bob stopped talking and drove on for a while enjoying a silent reverie from that day, so many decades before. He frowned, knowing what came next in his story. “On Monday, Davie, Chas and I wore our Shades and Whites. A couple of other guys did too. The other kids began to ask questions. We never gave any answer other than, 'Shades and Whites.' So guess what? On Tuesday, there were a lot more guys wearing shades and whites. The following Friday, just about everyone in school joined in. They went to their classes in white shirts, white tennis shoes and dark sunglasses. We even started writing, 'Shades and Whites' on the blackboards. I guess it freaked the teachers out.

What was it Arlo Guthrie said in 'Alice's Restaurant'? Something like, 'if two people do something together, maybe they're gay. Three do it together, it looks like an organization. And if fifty people do something together, it's a Movement.' And I guess that's just what the teachers and the principal thought. Oh, we laughed all weekend, but the following Monday was a different story.”

“I was called out of home room just before first hour and told to go to the principal's office. Chas was already there and Davie came in just after me. We later found out that Fred Macy, aka Ferd the Turd, had ratted us out. He told the principal that the three of us had been the 'instigators.' That's the word the principal used. We were 'attempting to disrupt the education of fellow students.' We were also trying to 'intimidate the teachers, blah, blah, blah.'” Hans sensed Bobs angry. He put his head in Bob's lap and looked up with sorrowful eyes. Bob relaxed.

“To make a long story short, the Student Council was force to amend the school's dress code. They banning the wearing of shades and whites. The administration declared Shades and Whites to be an unauthorized 'club' and banned it. We three instigators got a one week suspension, which was fine with us. But we also had to spend the remaining two months of the school year in after school detention. Some of the 'hard guys' wanted to make trouble, but, hell, it was just a goof to begin with.

Just a goof, be we were still outlaws in the eyes of the administration. So Chas, Davie, decided that if they thought of us as outlaws, then outlaws we would be. The Outlaws became our quite act of rebellion. We adopted the black hat as our symbol, though we only wore them around town, never in school. The Outlaws lasted all the way through high school. We pulled off some funny pranks now and then, but always anonymously. We had 'learned our lesson,' but not their lesson. We learned the Eleventh Commandment, 'Don't Get Caught.'"

That sounded like a stopping point to Hans, so he closed his eyes and immediately dozed off. Bob drove on in sober silence. He wanted to prepare himself for what was to come, but his mind kept drifting back to his high school days. What he was going to do had all started with The Outlaws.

After their Shades and Whites humiliation, The Outlaws was how they saved face. Bob, Chas and Davie were punished because of an ass-kissing rat and institutional paranoia. They had lost, it was unjust and there was not a damned thing they could do about it—at least not directly.

During summer vacations The Outlaws had often gone on their version of a camp-out. They would just drag sleeping bags and coolers into the nearby woods, build a fire and talk all night. Over time, they created elaborate group fantasies that grew out of various “what-ifs.” What would you do if you found a million dollars; how would you spend it? What if we woke up and found that all our bedrooms had been magically transported to a topical island? What girls would you want there too? What would you do if you knew you were going to die in a month? It was that last question that lead to the collaborative fantasy called, The List.

During a camp-out one summer, the “month-to-live” question came under discussion. Chas had blurted out, “Well if I knew I only had a month to live, I'd waste that lousy fuck, Ferd the Turd.” That set off debate. Was ratting them out to the principal a “hanging” offense? Would just a good beating better fit the crime? They finally reached a consensus of sorts. They all agreed that killing Macy would be wrong. However, if he ever caught on fire, not pissing on him to put the fire out would be okay. Anyway, sometime that night, The List was born. It was a list of people whom each of them would want to kill if they ever got a terminal disease. They all had different lists, but there were a lot of names in common. Davie—the resident philosopher—often repeated a quote by Voltaire. “An ideal form of government is democracy tempered with assassination.” So for good measure, the boys also added a few public figures to The List.

They debated for hours who should or should not be on The List. They even discussed the optimal List order. Assuming geographically spread "hits," how would you maximize your kills? The assumption was that sooner later we would die in a blaze of police gunfire. So the idea was to hit as many targets as we could before we bought the farm. Chas, the math wonk, had the answer. He said the question was a “subset of the TSP—the Traveling Salesman Problem.” He explained that the problem was of “NP hardness.” Nobody had a clue what he was talking about, but we believed him. He said optimal List order would be depend on two variable. First would be the relative "values" of the targets. Second would be targets' relative locations. He created an algorithm to optimize target ordering. He even created an algorithm to look for optimal kill orders. Then he wrote a program in BASIC on his TRS-80 computer. He called it, “Max Mayhem.”

Thirty years later, Bob still had a copy of Max Mayhem. It ran on a TRS-80 emulation on the laptop sitting in the back seat. “So far, so good,” Bob muttered under his breath. “Time for 'closure.'”

Bob's cross-country odyssey began because of Dr. Goodson's blunt, but direct revelation. “I'm not going to mince my words, Bob, you have lung cancer. I am so sorry; I wish I had better news.”

That was pretty much what Bob had guessed, but it was still hard to believe. He considered his death sentence for a few seconds, “So how much time do I have and what are my options, Doc?”

Dr. Goodson's face knotted up. “Hell Bob, it's incurable and it's inoperable. It's already metastasized to your pancreas and liver. You probably have six months, maybe a year, but nobody really knows. There are plenty of well documented cases of spontaneous remission. I wouldn't count on a miracle, but again, who knows? For what it's worth we could do chemo or radiation. The truth is, given the extent of your cancer, treatment would be a waste of your precious time. It is unlikely to do you any good and it is guaranteed to make you feel like crap for whatever time you have left.”

A wry smile crossed Bob's face. “Well, I've always wanted to go to Bora Bora,” I guess it's now or never. But I just don't get it, Doc, how could I have lung cancer, I don't smoke.”

“It isn't just smokers who get lung cancer,” Dr. Goodson explained. “Though smokers do make up the vast majority of cases. It's pretty clear to me what the cause was. It was the discoid atelectasis you got as a result of your... because of the incident.”

The “incident,” Dr. Goodson was talking about, was a beating Bob had received. His attacker was “Butch” Thompson, a dirty cop in Houston. The cop had mistaken him for someone else, grabbed him, and slammed him against a wall several times. All the while yelling into his police radio, “Stop resisting! Stop resisting!” He finally threw Bob to the ground and handcuffed him, but it didn't end there. The cop then kicked Bob in the face and torso. The body blows were full force. Bob suffered broken bones and a partially collapsed left lung. The tissue damage resulted in atelectasis, which led to Bob's lung cancer.

At the time, Bob tried to bring charges against officer Thompson. But he had no witnesses and the police protect their own. So his complaints fell on deaf ears. No lawyer would take his case. Oh, they believed him, but saw it as a losing cause. They knew better than to go tilting against law enforcement windmills.

So Thompson laughed at Bob and hid behind the system. The cop thought he had won. The truth was, he had only defeated what would have amounted to a slap on the wrist. At the very worst the loss of his job or some monetary damages. Instead, he now would have a different fate. He had earned himself the top spot—with a bullet—on Bob's personal version of The List. The irony was not lost on Bob. He planned to make sure the cop “got it” too, before he got what was coming to him.

As Bob drove on through the night toward Houston, he noticed he was gripping the wheel too tightly again. He knew why. The decision to take a human life is difficult for any normal person. Bob was no exception. He had agonized over it, unable to make a final decision. What pushed him off the fence was an article he read in a science magazine.

The article was about something called “altruistic punishment.” The concept had sounded like an oxymoron to Bob. It had made him chuckle. When he read the article, though, it's weird logic made sense to him. Altruistic punishment occurs when someone punishes a person for harming the punisher or others. The punisher does so without any reward. Instead, it often costs him dearly and even has the potentially fatal consequences. So the question was, how does that work in an evolutionary sense? Wouldn't natural selection weed altruistic punishers out of the gene pool over time?

From a socio-biological perspective, though, it made perfect sense. The “punisher gene” is beneficial to the group—family, tribe, society. So it enhances the greater gene pool. So is altruistic punishment beneficial to the group? Of course, it acts as a deterrent to bad guys. Many behavioral scientists believe it has a more positive benefit. They think human social cooperation was the evolutionary result of altruistic punishment. In any case, altruistic punishment is a part of human behavior.

Bob had seen Thompson's “jacket.” Shanica, a sympathetic police records clerk, had sent him a copy. She included other incriminating information. She said she was disgusted at what had happened to Bob and so many others. Shanica wanted to see Thompson kicked off the force or worse. She could have been fired or criminally charged for leaking the file, but she did it anyway. So at heart, Shanica was an altruistic punisher too.

Butch Thompson's file was full of credible allegations of excessive force, theft, sexual misconduct and two suspicious non-fatal shootings of unarmed victims. However, he only got two official “reprimands” and got off on everything else.

Thompson's file and the clerks brave act were just the nudge Bob needed to get off the fence. That cop was going to continue hurting people and would kill someone sooner or later. He had to be stopped and Bob was going to be the one doing the stopping.

Hans stirred and looked at Bob as though asking for more talk. Bob obliged. “So once I decided to do this thing, I knew I had to find a way to get to Butch. One of the things Shanica had sent me helped in that search. Butch liked to brag about hooking up with women he found in online chat rooms. He was married, but he knew that none of the other cops would rat him out. So he regaled anyone who would listen with sordid stories of his S&M conquest. SirKnightStick,' was Butch's online alter ego. The clerk sent me everything she knew about SirKnightStick.” Bob stopped talking while he negotiated a cloverleaf. He continued on the last highway before Houston.

After he was on the new route, he relaxed and Hans nuzzled Bob to get him to scratch him behind the ears. Bob knew the cue and complied. He continued with his story. “So I went to the chat room that Butch used. I created a character for myself called, 'Mistress Altruistic Punishment.' She was a dominatrix. Her tag-line was, 'I must be cruel to be kind.'” Bob laughed as he said it, which startled Hans.

“Sorry boy,” he apologized. “Anyway, I chatted up Butch and was a sympathetic listener for anything he had to say. I also monitored SirKnightStick's public chats with other women in the chat room. I made copies of his public chats. He let it be known that he was a tough cop and a fine physical specimen. His physical description was truthful. He was a bully and a large one. So I made copies of his bragging. I sent an anonymous email with the transcripts along with an explanation to his wife. Shanica had include the email address in the materials she sent me. Bless her altruistically punishing heart.”

Bob fell silent while he thought about the shit storm he had caused. Butch's wife went to the chat room and raised holy hell. Other women in the chat room sided with her and jumped all over Butch for lying about his marital status. “Mistress Altruistic Punishment” was the only one to come to Butch's defense. “She” said Butch was just too much man for his wife to handle. Butch had eaten it up. Bob knew the hook was set when his alter ego received a private text from Butch, “I have to meet you.” They made a date. A date Bob intended to keep.

Nature was calling so Bob pulled into a rest stop to take care of business. “Okay, Hans, let's take a bathroom break and get some food.” When he heard the word “food” Hans perked up. Bob always said “food” when he fed Hans, so Hans surmised what that meant. Clever Hans.

When they got out of the car, Hans bound into the woods behind the public restrooms. “Okay Hans, don't go too far.” After he had said it, it occurred to Bob it might be better just to leave Hans and drive off. Bad things were going to happen and maybe Hans would be better off finding a new companion. Then he muttered to himself, “But maybe I'll win.” He and Hans had been together for a long time. They were buddies and they would face this together.

After they had both had relieved themselves, Bob took a homemade ham sandwich out of the cooler. He gave Hans a big slab of ham. Normally, Hans got canned dog food and table scraps. This could be our last meal together, Bob thought, so why not enjoy it? He could see that Hans agreed. His tail was wagging a mile a minute as he wolfed down the ham.

After they got back on the road, Bob started again without preamble. “So I asked myself, how will I kill Officer Butch?” Hans looked up and cocked his head. Bob continued. “I had thought about using a shotgun pizza.” Hans responded by tilting his head in the other direction.

“Since you asked, Hans, there was a guy, Richard Davis. H's the guy who invented the Kevlar bulletproof vest. Before that, he delivered pizzas in the Detroit area. After being shot twice in attempted robberies, he decided he needed some protection. Before he invented the Kevlar vest, though, he created and carried the shotgun pizza. That was an insulated pizza delivery box with a hole cut in the bottom. In the box, he placed a short shotgun which he could hold onto through the hole in the box. He knew that criminals often broke into abandoned homes and ordered pizzas. They knew that pizza delivery guys usually had a lot of cash on them. When the delivery guy came to the door, they would confronted him with a gun and rob him.

So any time he made a delivery to a suspicious house, he would take the shotgun pizza to the door. He aimed it so it would be pointed at whoever opened the door. If things looked okay, he would say something like, 'You had the anchovy pizza, right?' When they said no, he would say, “Oh sorry, your's in the van, I'll get it.” He'd take the shotgun pizza back to the van and get the pizza they ordered. However, Davis realized that all that the shotgun pizza would buy him was a gunfight. So he created the Second Chance Kevlar, soft body armor vest and the rest is history.” Bob looked toward Hans who wagged his tail in approval. At least that was Bob's interpretation.

“My idea was to go to Officer Butches house dressed as a pizza delivery guy. I'd have my own shotgun pizza. When he came to the door, I planned to say, 'Remember me?' then blow him away. The problem with that plan was that his wife or 10-year old daughter might answer the door. Even if Butch came to the door, I would not be able to kill him in front of his family. I could not do that to them. So back to the drawing board. That's when I came up with the whole 'Mistress Altruistic Punishment' idea. I will end him, but not in front of his family or where innocent bystanders might get hit.”

They finally pulled into the Houston area a bit after noon. Their first stop was a ready-mix plant. Bob's construction company used to buy cement from them. He timed his arrival for Sunday when he knew no one would be working there except Harold, the old watchman. He checked out the field several hundred yards away from the guardhouse on the other side of the plant. Nothing had changed. The occasional car parking in the field was not unusual. Teenagers went there to make out. Harold had a policy of not bothering them as long as they kept off of the plant property. Bob also knew that Harold was in the habit of taking in stray dogs...

Their next stop was a car wash. He cleaned up the black, 2011, Lincoln Town Car he had purchased just for this occasion. After the Lincoln was blow dried Bob put on a uniform. He donned a black chauffeur's suit, a chauffeur's cap and black leather driving gloves. He and Hans made another pit stop. It was almost show time.

In the Lincoln, he picked up the burner cell phone he had a street person buy for him. It cost him a couple of hundred, but so what? He dialed Butch's secret cellphone. Of course, Butch's wife knew nothing about it.

“Hello, is this Mistress Altruistic Punishment?” Butch's voice was eager with anticipation.

“No Officer Thompson, this is Julius Schreck, Madam's chauffeur. I believe she told you I would be picking you up outside the Marriott at three.”

“Yes, she did. I just hoped she would be with you,” Butch's disappointment was palpable.

“No sir, I will be taking you to meet her at a very... special location.”

"Okay, uh...”

“... Julius Schreck, sir, you may call me Julius.”

"Schreck? That sounds sort of familiar. Is it German?”

“No sir, my family was Swiss,” Bob ad-libbed. Maybe his choice of chauffeur name was ill advised. Julius Schreck had been Adolf Hitler's chauffeur at one time. He thought chauffeuring another monster was funny. Fortunately, Butch did not get it.

“Okay, uh Julius, do you speak Swiss?” Butch asked.

“Fluently, sir.”

“Great, Julius, I'll be wearing a light blue shirt and tan slacks. How will I recognize you?”

“I'll be driving a black Lincoln Town Car, sir. I have a beard and I will be dressed in a black suit and cap. There will be a dog next to me in the front passenger seat.” He had grown the beard to help disguise his face. He also pulled his cap down so it was just above his eyes.

“A dog?”

“Yes sir. Madam believes you will enjoy watching her and the dog... play together.”

Butch was silent for several seconds, then stammered, “Uh, okay, I'm sure... I'm sure, uh, yeah that sounds, uh interesting.” Bob smiled as he imagined Butch touching himself.

Just before 3:00 Bob pulled up to the Marriott. He immediately recognized his attacker. He stopped the car and went around to the curb side. He made a little bow and said, “Master Thompson? Right this way please.” He opened the Town Car's rear door and made another slight bow as Butch got in. Bob returned to the driver's side and got in behind the wheel. Butch leaned forward to pat Hans. Bob saw his movement and introduced Hans, “Sir, this is Bruno.” Hans snarled and snapped at Butch who jerked his hand back. Bob had trained Hans to act aggressive whenever Bob gave him the cue word, “Bruno.” He thought it might come in handy on the street sometime. Funny, Bob thought, I think Hans went for Butch's hand just before I said 'Bruno.'

“I'm sorry, Master Thompson, he's usually a very good judge of character. Isn't that right Bruno?” Hans again responded to the cue by exposing his canines and making a low, menacing growl. Butch stiffened and pulled back in his seat. He did not take his eyes off Hans and Hans returned the favor.

Butch finally broke the ensuing silence with an attempt at small talk, “So, nice ride you got here.”

“Yes, sir, it was one of the last Lincoln Town Cars. Only 9,400 were built in 2011. I hope you enjoy the ride sir...” because it will be your last, Bob finished mentally.

They arrived at the empty field behind the ready-mix plant. Butch's face showed apprehension as he looked around. Bob caught it in the rear view mirror. Quickly, he pressed the special button he had installed to ring his cellular phone. He pretended to answer, “This is Julius... five minutes? Very good Madame, I understand Madame... yes Madame, I will instruct master Thompson.” he then lowered the phone and addressed Butch. “Master Thompson, Madame has instructed me to ask you to don the clothes you will find in the valise next to you.”

Butch had not given the small black case much notice. When he opened it, he found what looked like some sort of Roman gladiator costume. Kinky, he thought. “So Julius, what does Mistress Altruistic Punishment plan to do with me?”

“Master Thompson, Madame will be here momentarily. I am sure she would not want me to spoil the... surprise. Please take off your street clothes and place them on the seat. I will see to them.”

Butch proceeded to undress. When he removed his slacks he asked, “What about this?” as he indicated the snub-nosed revolver in its ankle holster.

“No problem, sir, it will be safe with me. It will be returned to you shortly.”

“Well, I kinda feel naked with out it; but I guess it will be worth it.”

“Indeed, Master Thompson,” Bob responded with a broad grin, “Indeed it will.”

Butch handed over his ankle holster and gun and the rest of his street clothes. He stepped out of the car and turned his back while he put on the costume's helmet, belt, loin cloth and shin guards. He kept his white athletic socks on. “So what now?” he said as he turned back around. Bob was pointing another gun at him. “Hey, what gives!”

Bob took a moment to tell Hans to 'stay' before saying, “Well Butch, I have some good news and some bad news for you. The good news is that Mistress Altruistic Punishment is here. The bad news is that I am she. Now imagine me without the beard. Do I look familiar?”

Butch squinted at Bob for a moment, then he opened them wide, “Fuck! You're that perp who tried to get me in trouble for working you over.” In spite of the situation, Butch actually made a sneering laugh. That ended quickly enough as Bob raised his pistol and aimed it at Butch's face.

“Okay, okay, now think this through, Julius...”

“Bob.”

“Whatever. You are not going to shoot me and I'll tell you why. If you do, you'll get the chair.”

“Ah yes, Stage One, Denial. I believe you mean 'lethal injection,' don't you? That's the current form of capital punishment in Texas isn't it? Gee, I sure wouldn't want that.” Butch snickered at that. “On the other hand... I probably have only a few months to live anyway, thanks to you.” Butch stared without comprehension. “When you 'worked me over' the injuries gave me lung cancer. It's terminal, so I have nothing to lose by killing you. How about that?”

“Look here, you son of a bitch!” Butch shouted, “You lower that gun right now or I am going to take it away from you and stick it up your ass! I ain't afraid of you. Who the fuck do you think you are?” Butch started to move toward Bob. He stopped when Bob, lowered his gun and shot Butch in the the right foot. The bullet removing a toe which bounced out of the hole in his sock. “Are you fucking crazy? When I get my hands on you, you will wish you were never born. That whupping I gave you was just a taste of what you're gonna get!”

“Stage Two, Anger. Really? There you stand, unarmed, in your stocking feet, missing a toe and wrapped in a loin cloth. I, however, am fully dressed and have all my toes. I am pointing a .40 caliber Glock 22, loaded with 15 hollow-point rounds at your...” Bob raised his aim point, “... rapidly shrinking dick. I'm not lying handcuffed on the ground, so how do you propose to whup my ass this time?”

Butch's bluff fell flat and he knew it. “Look, Bob, yeah, what I did was wrong and I'm sorry, but we can't change the past, right? Why don't we make a deal that let's us both walk away from this? Listen, I have an idea. I have a kilo of high-grade smack. I mean really, it hasn't been stepped on at all. I uh... liberated it during a drug bust last year. I guarantee it will take the edge off whatever pain you get from your... illness. Come on, what do you say?”

“I say, 'Stage Three, Bargaining' and I also say, no deal.” Bob saw Butch's face fall. “However, I have an offer you can't refuse. Your costume should be a clue.” Butch didn't get it. “The truth is, I feel funny about just shooting you in cold blood. So I will give you a chance to take me out. Hell, I'm going to die soon anyway, so why not make it interesting? We are going to settle this via Trial by Combat.” Butch realized he had a chance to kill Bob and walk away.

Bob continued, “By the way, here's an interesting factoid for you Butch. British Common Law did not outlaw trial by combat until after the American revolution. No US court has ruled on the subject. So it is unclear whether or not trial by combat is still legitimate in America. I don't give a rat's ass, but I find that interesting, don't you?”

Butch finally got it. “You mean we are going to fight with gladiator swords?”

“The official term is 'gladius,' or in this case the plural is 'gladii,' but no, we will have a duel with firearms. It's easier. Remember, I said I would be returning your weapon to you? Well, in a few minutes I will give you a chance to shoot me dead in an Old West style shoot out. Pretty fair, don't you think?”

“What's the catch? I'm pretty good with a gun,” Butch boasted.

Bob smiled, “So am I” and with that he shot off another of Butch's toes.

“Damn you son of a bitch! Are you crazy? What did you do that for?”

“One,” Bob counted off on his fingers, “I don't want you to just run away when our duel begins. Two, I wanted to let you know how good a shot you are facing—I've been practicing. Three, that was also for kicking me in the face when I was handcuffed on the ground. Hurts doesn't it? Now be a good man and put these on.” He tossed Butch a pair of regulation handcuffs. “I want you immobile when I give you your gun and back off twenty paces. Don't worry, I'll give you the key when I'm in place.”

Butch took the cuffs and put them on his wrists in front of his body. “You won't get away with this,” he challenged.

Bob made a wry face, “Well, so far, so good. Now let me see you ratchet down those cuffs nice and snug.” Butch complied. “Okay, here's how it will work. I will put your pistol on the ground and walk twenty paces away. Then I will turn and toss you the cuff key and put my gun on the ground too. After you unlock the cuffs we will both go for our guns and start shooting. 'You may fire when you are ready, Gridley.'” The historical allusion was lost on Butch.

Bob put Butch's revolver a few feet in front of Butch and walked away. What he did not see was Butch fishing a backup handcuff key out of his sock and unlocking his cuffs. He grabbed the gun and snapped off a shot at Bob's receding back. The bullet caught Bob in his right scapula. Bob dropped his Glock as he spin around and fall to the ground facing Butch. He tried to reach for his gun, but it was just out of his grasp. Before he could crawl to it, Butch took careful aim and shot the gun further out of Bob's reach. “Pretty good shooting, right Bob?” Butch taunted. Bob was already prepared to die, so he relaxed and lay still, waiting for it.

Butch could read Bob's surrender and mocked, “Hey, I got it, the five stages of grief. I guess you've just skipped directly to Stage Five, Acceptance. Are you ready to die, Bob?” Bob gave a slight nod. “Well guess what, Bob, I'm not going to kill you... right away. I have five more shots in my piece and several moon clips attached to my ankle holster. I am going to make this last. I am going to kill you one piece at a time. I think I will start with your fingers. Yup, I'm that good.”

Butch circled around to where he had a good view of Bob's hands. He took very careful aim, but stopped when he heard a whimpering sound to his right. He turned slightly and saw Hans coming up to them. “Oh, yeah, Bob, after I finish with you, I am going to drill your precious dog. What do you say to that?”

“Shoot me, if you want, but please don't hurt Bruno.” Butch laughed at that, but not for long. Out the corner of his eye, Butch saw a blur racing toward him. He spun and got off one shot before Hans knocked him off his feet. Butch dropped his gun as he tried to fend off Hans. This gave Bob just enough time to reach his Glock, take aim and shoot Butch in the chest. Butch fell backwards with Hans on top of him, trying to tear his throat out. “Hans, heel!” Bob commanded. Hans stopped his attacking, but stood in place until Bob gave him a stern look and repeated, “Heel.” Hans reluctantly came to his master's side. Bob advanced and recovered Butch's gun. He backed away and just watched Butch.

“Go ahead do it, asshole!” Butch challenged. “Finish it.”

Bob looked at Butch for a few seconds more then said, “Here's something ironic Butch. It appears that my shot got you in your left lung, just about the same place where you kicked me. It's a sucking wound, I can hear it wheeze when you breath. I can see frothy blood pumping out each time your heart beats. Not that I would, but even if I drove you to a hospital, you'd probably bleed out before we got there. So it looks as though you and I will both die from lung injuries. Of course, you will die a lot sooner than me. Later, your body will be found dressed n a silly S&M 'gladiator' get up. Man, you will be the talk of Houston. Anyway, I have to run. I need to attend to this flesh wound on my shoulder. I'm pretty sure your round just skipped off my scapula. I don't think it broke or puncturing anything vital. You will be happy to know, though, it hurts like a motha and I have to stop the bleeding. I brought along wound dressing for just such a contingency.”

A flash of lightning illuminated the field and was immediately followed by a clap of thunder. “Oh, oh, I think it's going to rain. Man, this just isn't your day. Maybe you can drag yourself through the mud to the guardhouse on the other side of the plant. I don't think your odds are good, but hey, miracles happen. Anyway Butch, now I have to be going.” Butch made a pained face and tried to say something, but all that came out of his mouth was blood.

Bob and Hans got in the car and Bob pulled out some compression bandages. He dressed his shoulder wound as best he could with one hand. It was then he noticed blood on Hans' flank. “Son of a bitch, he grazed you fella. Here let's wrap some gauze around you. Hey, didn't I tell you to stay in the car?” Hans made a slight whine and tilted his head. “Oh, it's okay, Hans. You saved my bacon. You are my Clever Hans.” As they drove off, Hans nuzzled his head into Bob's lap and got a good scratching behind his ears in return. “Hans, I don't know how long we've got, but I'm done killing. I'm glad I did it, but it wasn't very satisfying. I guess that's the way altruistic punishment works. Anyway, I'm going to give everyone else on The List a pass. Somebody else will have to take care of them. So what say you and I set sail for Bora Bora? We might even make it.” Hans wagged his tail in agreement. Clever Hans.

Two Years Later

“Doctor, there are two detectives in the waiting room. They say they would like to speak with you about one of our former patients. Oh, and this lovely post card just came in the mail. Shall I show the detectives in?”

“No Gladys, please ask them to wait a couple of minutes. I have to finish up a patient chart. I'll let you know.”

After Gladys left his office, Dr. Goodson took a look at the post card. It was a photograph of a green mountain. It was wreathed in fluffy clouds and surrounded by an impossibly turquoise sea. Its banner proclaimed, “Welcome to Bora Bora.” The handwritten note on the back read, “Hi Doc, my coughing has stopped. It's been almost three years and counting. I feel great. Sometimes miracles do happen.” Instead of a signature the card was signed, “You know who.” Dr. Goodson nodded his head; his face bore a smile of supreme happiness. He could not stop the tears that came to his eyes.

After he recovered his composure, he buzzed Gladys and asked her to show the detectives in. When they entered, he shook their hands. “Please be seated gentlemen. How may I help you?”

The older of the two leaned forward. “Do you remember a patient of yours named Robert Hanson?”

Dr. Goodson, put the patient file he had been holding on his disk. He made sure it covered the postcard. “Yes, yes I do. Sad case, I had to tell him he had terminal cancer. He took it hard. I seem to remember he killed someone and disappeared. I'm sure he's dead by now. I gave him only a few months to live.”

“Actually, doctor, we believe he may still be alive. After he killed a Houston police officer we have reason to believe he fled to Mexico. His Town Car was found in a chop-shop in Matamoros, but that's where the trail went cold. It is our understanding that you were one of the last people to see him before he went to Houston. We were hoping that he may have said something that could help us. Did he say, anything, that might give us a clue where he could have gone after he killed Officer Thompson. Can you help us?”

“Let me tell you boys, it makes my blood boil when someone kills a good police officer!” At that, the two detectives gave each other quick sidelong glances. Dr. Goodson snapped his fingers and continued, “By golly, he did say something. Let me think. Ah yes, after I gave him the bad news. he looked shaken, but was able to make a little joke. He said,'Well, I've always wanted to visit the Canary Islands... or was it the Azores? No, I'm pretty sure he said the Canary Island... or maybe the Azores. It was one of those. If you think he's still alive, that is where you will find him. I'm sure of it.”

“Thank you, doctor, this information is important to us.

“No problem, gentlemen and please covey my condolences to Officer Thompson's family. I am sure they miss him terribly.” The detectives again traded telling glances. They said their goodbyes and left. Dr. Goodson uncovered the postcard and spoke, “Hey Bob, it was the best I could do. You did the right thing as you saw it. I think I did too. I hope you live a long and happy life.” He pulled out his cigarette lighter, lit up a Camel and used the lighter to ignite the postcard. He dropped it in the ashtray and watched it turn to ash. He coughed, looked at the cigarette and decided to stub it out in the ashes. He coughed again and said, “You just might outlive me, Bob. Peace be with you.” He picked up the patient folder, leaned back in his chair and got back to work.

ß

Like to see more? I am currently working on THE LIST II. Also, Adventures in Human Space I, II and III are available on Smashwords (https://www.smashwords.com)(search [sandy sandfort]). Escape From Terra, Volumes 1, 2 and 3, the graphic series derived from Adventures in Human Space is available from Amazon.com (search [escape from terra]). I have a couple of websites coming on line soon, but other writing projects. Please get on my email notification list to find out when they are available. Just send a email to: sandy@sandfort.biz with STEEM READERS LIST in the subject line. (Just a teaser: I am working on a story about a truly flat earth that makes sense in real-world physics!)

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THE LIST

THE LIST

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