Randy had been uneasy since getting into the cab—extremely so. The cabby seemed fine, but he could not shake the sense that he had been being watched on the way out of Old Sobo. Sitting on his ass, possibly stopped at a light, and getting jacked by cops or Future Freaks was a very real possibility in the tortured confines of his paranoid mind. As he got into the cab last, on the left side, his mind raced.

Sometimes these things only open from the outside—a security measure. You have to be able to get out. Hold it closed—almost—don’t let it latch.

And so he rode through town, the cabby non-the-wiser. His arm was cramping after about 15 minutes as they wended their way up to Orleans and Gay Street deep into the East Baltimore hood. He was armed and ready for whatever came their way. His first line of defense was in the leather case at his feet and couched in the palm of his right hand in the form of a stick match—one of the real ones that would light on your denim pants leg.

Look how entranced Rick is and how tense Sensei is. Lighten the mood. Talk to the Ukrainian.

“Hey Bub, what might your name be?”

“Bub, I like Bub. Bub is good,” the man said as he smiled widely into the mirror, and then retorted, “What is your name Bub?”

Oh, what a dickhead!

“My name is Mister Bub; and to my right here is Lord Bub; and to his right is Professor Bub!”

The sly cabby grinned the wider and then suddenly veered left, up a side street that Randy could not name, to avoid a black BMW with illegally tinted windows and federal plates, besides which stood a very tall spooky looking bald dude with a ski cap and grey suit.

Oh fuck this!

Bub then pulled up into a newly paved driveway at the base of a boarded up house which had recently had the porch and front wall knocked out to make room for a rolling garage door that was rolling up as Bub pulled into the base of the house and the tall man followed them.

Oh fuck no!!

He noticed a door on the right in the back of the house, which was the second one from the end of the row. He also saw a pair of feet descending the stairs from the second story of the house up and to the left. Sensei was struggling with the door, knowing something was wrong, and Rick seemed dazed, his eyes darting to all parties and back again. There was no shooting Bub since he was safe behind his bulletproof glass, so Randy lit his match, winked at Rick and Sensei, drew his stick of dynamite from its place in the leather case next to Rick’s Colt .45, lit it, and rolled it under Bub’s seat.

As he began to cackle his laugh of childish joy Sensei roared like an ape and began hammer-fisting his window into shattered glass as Randy rolled out of his side drawing Rick’s .45 even as a 9 mm round impacted the car door he was using as a shield.

He raised his gun, stepped out and fired in one easy motion as a terrible impact seemed to shatter something in his chest right above his heart, and a searing pain tore across his pectoral muscle and blood shot from the shoulder of his duster.

Shit that hurts!

As he continued to step and cocked the .45 for another shot he saw the Hispanic man’s throat explode from his first round. The blood splattered in every direction, except onto the bow-tied suit that the mysterious assassin was wearing.

Later Ricky Ricardo!

He was still stepping long and low away from the car as he traversed his weapon to fire into the belly of the tall man that was just then entering through the door in the back wall. For a moment he thought about wasting a round by pumping it into Bub’s still grinning face, but thought better of it as he exhaled. Then Bub and his cab—now thankfully empty of Sensei and Rick—exploded, and Randy was struck across the face by a Ukrainian forearm, with floppy two-fingered hand included.

How many, hillbillies does it take to blow themselves up?

The impact of the explosion was now sweeping him into the wall like a lint ball.

Apparently it only takes one of the dumb bastards to blow himself up—ouch!

The wind was driven from his lungs and his face was scorched by a fireball.

As he crashed off of the wall and landed with a thud on the concrete he could only muster one thought, Damn I wish that was a cop in his cop car!

His ears were ringing, but he pulled himself together.

Get up asshole! You are the Master Race’s representative at this Ukrainian barbecue!

He put his hat back on to protect his head and charged headfirst through the flames and raised Rick’s .45 as he came around the front of the burning wreck. Sensei was on his side puking his guts up, his eyes rolling around in their sockets, and Rick was standing before the tall man in an apparent hypnotic trance.

Randy screamed, “Fuck you freak!”as he raised the muzzle slightly to send a slug into the man’s ear.

There are 42 pages reaming to the novel. For the conclusion of The World is Our Widow check out the e-book available on this site or go to www.amazon.com and search James LaFond author’s page for the print version.