Principle, Strategy, and Tactics

Principle: A fundamental truth serving as the foundation of a system of beliefs or reasoning. 

Strategy: A plan of attack or policy designed to accomplish a goal

Tactic: an action taken to achieve a specific end. 

⎈

The breeze of the open night air. Accompanied by the faint honks of cars.

I continue joggin' till I reach the curb, there I grasp the stoplight pole and pant. Hand ovr fist exhale of relief and intake of panic. They scream from behind me. That's my cue. I keep on running.

Shit, I knew this was a stupid idea. I look down at the duffel bag, with the same semblance of tatters I recognize, but heavier than before when I entered.

The parking lot was behind the building, a good place to hide. My panic only increases when I realize that I will be trapped. I stumble through the alleyway taking a quick look back to see my pursuers. Several heard. None seen.

Darkness is your ally. But every environment has its advantages. Recognize them, and do it fast.

The lot was pavement that sported a glossy sheen from the recent water and occasional litter of cigarettes and glass from when the roosters got into fights. It wasn't too common to be illegal but many of us here got away wit it. Among the white striped lanes, half the lot remains vacant with the remainder filled with Suburbans, Hondas, and even a cruiser. What the fuck was I thinking doing this now with a cop--

"He's gonna get his car. Quickly!" I hear behind me. Littl' do they know, my car is parked at a more strategic location. Ain't sure how I'm gonna get to it, but that is the lease' of my concern. The fox ain't gonna nab the hare that easy. This be the place where lose them, or at least stir up some ploy.

I nearly tear my jeans on the gravel of the pavement, sliding behind a white car whose description I am too agitated to mention. I shift to a crouch, not knowing when they would round the engine.

The footsteps halt for a moment, the men grasping the impracticality of charging through without concern. One would expect some noise of frustration or bravado. But the steps resume, quietly and more deliberately.

Leaning against the step bar of the car, I take the time to consider my choices. How was I getting away with this? They'd see my car, and my face. Would I need my last resort? I'd have to tell Natalie that we need to move upstate, and that it'd be a while bfor'--

Crunch. One of my advancers' attempts at stealth triggers my hearing.

Get lost in thought if you like, but always keep you ears open. Cause you can bet everyone's doin a hell lot more than listenin.

I move to the back of the car and, checking front and back first, I become a duck waddling four parking spaces forward and turn left. Making it through the slim dividend of grass, I stop. I twist my head to see the niveous lamp above, too beautiful to hide any secrets.

The second stall lies just 10 feet in front of me with more cars than spaces, and no voices or steps are heard. A gap between a silver Toyota and white Minivan entices me to enter another itinerary, more shielded from chasers.

The rustler from before will catch on my trail so I make my move. Keeping the advice honeycrisp, I capture the specters approaching in my mind's eye, their current movements. Two faux leather thugs scanning the rows to their sides, magnums drawn in their hands. As I envision it, the tip of my shoe scuffs the sole of the other, reducing me to crawling.

"Shh." I hear one say, and I know I am done for. In desperation I scrape my feet from kneeling to a squat and slip across the patch of grass between the rows, and come to sit behind a black car. Up ahead lies the third and final row of the lot.

As the crunch of infinitesimal rocks resumes, I hold my breath. I really hoped it wouldn't come to this; I promised myself, but I had no choice. I grip the handle in my jeans and whip it out.

I don't hear the man behind me. But I catch the glint off the black mirror, and swat his pistol just as he finds me. His left seizes my piece, but I am prepared. 'Fore he can scream, I sweep him from his straddle and chokehold him. Using my free hand to restrain his now armed left, I slam it into the door, making a dent no bigger than an ashtray. After kayoing him one more time, I snatch my gun and lose my breath.

I had made only two big sounds. I didn't know how close they were, the gravel sounded the same now, but they were certainly gonna check it out. Now, under a second lamppost, I check my ammo. Not enough.

I had to act. I should kill, they would've done the same to me. What would Uncle Sam do?

Cornered prey don't think about consequences lightly. Anything is better than dealing with an ambush.

Light. Moving slower than my instincts were liking, I see the beaming light from before, and another similar one at the other end of the row I am in.

With petrified eyes, I pull the trigger on my shooting iron. Clink, fizz. Clink, fizz.

Both lights go out. Not waiting even a second, I bolt diagonally to an indiscreet black car in the third row. My keen senses and training tell me the men are naturally drawn to gunshot sources and will sprint chaotically. Too excited to creep, I run in the darkness, then I slam my back against the car, which I can barely---.

"Hey asshole!" You recognize the voice as Bill. "You think you can bandy a threat like that at my business and come after my money! We ain't finished with you by fucking sight!"

His sarcasm, although said out of vexed fury, filled me with shame. I looked at the duffel bag. This money wasn't mine. Well, most of it wasn't. It wasn't even theirs. I was simply one of the many dirty hands to touch it, and the closet I would ever get to success was distracting them. Clearly not enough.

I had come here to this business for over a month now, which turned out to be a nasty bag of nails. I promised Natalie I would be honest now. But when I saw where they put their stash, I doubt anybody 'cept Jesus could wipe the green from their eyes. Now I was going to end up paying more than I swiped for.

I glanced at my piece, my bag, and the pebbles of gravel between my legs. Could I shoot and run? Maybe sneak in between the cars chaotically like them to the way I came in? Nah, that dog wouldn't hunt. My intelligence shore ain’t at this camp.

When you're caught in a crosshair, close your eyes and do your best. It's not gonna hack your problems, but there ain't much else you can do. 

What should I do with that, I think.

As the men bombarded the breathless lot with one hellish crack up after another, it would only be a matter of time before Bill found me. The demagogue and his men had this olfactory for their enemies, like they knew my fear was keeping me in this lot. Sorta made me wonder why he didn't sense me before at the --

Peuw, Crash. "Got ya you piec-" Bang

As the man with the immaculate scruffy neck seized me by the arm and tried to strangle me, I dropped my gun. No matter, I think. I find his face and I kayo him in the nose. He releases me and I reach for my pistol.

I thought I was used to savage reflexes, that I had one hand on the wheel with the animal inside. I thought that every time I looked at a corpse back in Nam, when my commander treated me like shit. I told myself before and after the war, I would control that animal, killer or not. But it's strange how a core principle can vanish in a matter of life and death.

Now I watch the leather jacket collapse and groan. I almost feel relieved in that moment, but instead, an icy chill swarms in my veins like venom from a snake. Jumping across the dividend of the third lane, I walk 4 car paces to my right and halt. The pissed chatter speaks only of ill intent and disappointment at failing to find me.

Guard the third lane. He's hiding in there somewhere. I'll flush him out. Be ready!

You can't play a dishonest game with absolute integrity. Even though I outsmarted the lot of those pigs, they took advantage of my naiveté, my selfless desire, and shot me in the face wit it. They weren't letting some greenhorn walk aways with their money. Their grizzled beards and musky smell told me Bill and the others had experience snapping thin necks, each undoubtedly one worth his salt.

More advice suddenly shimmers, Hope is a toxic thing, boy. Can get ya into a lotta trouble you ain't fit to deal wit. Especially when its for people ya love.

But picking any more wheat out of my anger won't bring any more decency to surrender. I holster the gun and grip the bag for likely the last time. Live or die, one thing was Simon Pure: I was getting what I came to me. In a sad way it's liberating, knowing ther'll be consequences. As I return to a raised squat, more advice shimmers.

Thanks, Uncle. Against his advice, I'd become more quixotic than most sons of guns around here. I thought about his advice before entering Bill's little lair, but at the time, I reckoned that the idea of gettin Natalie a more decent life was important. Realizin how balderdash I was, I collapse on the ground, letting all the objects of my anguish loose from my wrung hands.

Uncle would've said get up, but somehow I knew he'd be saying it out of sheer disenchantment. Get up soldier. Shred your humanity, kill or be killed. 

A tiny bell rings in my noggin. My legs crick at the uncomfortable position I've frozen in. A smart man would stand and not pay any second thoughts, lest of course they wants to deny Bill a few meager dollars and bullets. A heroic man would run for it and blast anyone in his way, but have one otta hundred chances of even seeing his car. The Strategies of my Uncle and I. Neither result from either can assuage Natalie or my own guilty conscience.

The bell's reverberation ceases. I shake my head vigorously. Sorry Uncle, I don't follow your lessons. Not anymore.

"It's over ya flannel mouth! Give us the bag and we won't tell the cops. Ya don't deserve the luxury of prison." Take your shot, rattlers.

I move furtively from the black Sedan three cars over to the end of the third row. I use the surprisingly transparent windows to see the rattlers grazing the second and third lines of cars. I catch Bill, with a Tac-Remington, eyes more ablaze than the lamplights. Then again, I did too. Use your instincts and be smart, I iron into my rulebook.

My head swings forward to the swampy trash bin against a yella wall and just a little further to the right, the exit. No going back the other way. I take incremental steps from behind the car and rest my bagged hand against the bin.

Out in front of me stands one of them roosters, looking like a deer caught in headlights. My first impulse would be to send him to Old Hob, but then I remember my self-advice. Gripping the pistol and bag, I run back into the third row, making it nearly halfway 'fore I hear the first bang.

Another lamp light, the middle one, I stop at. I turn and when I see him phase in front of the bin, I don't hesitate to wound him. Quashing my adrenaline, thinking quickly, I look like a goblin moving between a red medium duty pick up and another car, and oscillate my head left to right.

Two roosters to my left, backs slightly turned, are easy hits, egotistical ones too. More self serving than a wild salmon beef burger. But that dog no longer hunts that. Instead, I nearly dive to the second row, the chattering gravel not discouraging me. Inside the stall, I run backways to the direction of the wall.

Time for aversion. Three shots left, one spare magazine. I turn 180 and blast the windows of a Canero. Then a Honda, then pick up. Roosters retaliate with bewildered shots. I become a goblin no more as take precise and thereby faster steps on the stream of grass. Those brains of yours aren't so dumb after all, a familiar voice says.

I snatch the second magazine from my jean pocket, deposit it into the empty slot, and cock my magnum. I blast another car across the row, which may just do the goddam trick.

Alongside the stream, in tandem with my speed, is another man. I cannot tell if he sees me, but at the end of the row I stop, and wait. Nothing. Is he waiting for me? Am I trapped?

Crunch. I halt where I am and look horizontally. Three spaces length-wise lies the open rusted fence. The opportunity to make a body countless escape has reappeared. I go to spin, thinkin I can get to the fence with only two missed shots at worst; no shots and no witness at best. I might get otta this yet.

Then I come next to the green striped car that I always wanted to have. I saw it every time I came to play here, Bill told me to stay ‘way from it. Said it was worth more than a thousand ladies put together. That joke wasted the boys more than a beer coated turkey leg.

Suddenly my memory kicks in. The memory of our card game, and how Bill always liked to pull his surprise at the last minute.

I somersault between two silver cars out of the row, and am now blessed with the onerous sight of the bastard who brought me here. There he stands, his stare cold as the wind and distilled in the lamplight. The Tac clutched like a sword by an evil knight. His glare disguises his angst of lifting his weapon to execution position.

Don't hesitate, is what my Uncle would've said.

His death would only lead to my prosecution; more than just Natalie would see me as a disturbed sonova bitch, but somehow I doubt that it would be far less calamitous. I was just another piece of meat than their dogs would gorge down anemically. Besides, these Roosters won't stick their necks out for help in finding me, only to get clipped by the cops 'emselves.

Then again, he was just a fella. A cruel bastard just like me but just using a different mask. He opens his mouth, as if to say something that had gone beyond smart to dumb formula.

I don't give him that satisfaction.

"Showin respect for your boss, eh! Well let this be a lesson to ya: you show your ass--"

With a spring, I hop on his abdomen mid-air and tug on his neck. The force sends us into a takedown on the glazed pavement. When my back feels the gravel, damp from the dime sized pools, I kick, flipping him over. In a clean scramble, I thwack his appalled face with my foot.

As much as I'd like to wallop, bushwhack, or even shoot the goddamn pederast, some voice in my head says I should get goin. Maybe it's Natalie or common sense. I’ll figure it out later.

The cacophony of my assault is immaterial to me now. My pistol discarded, I purloin his Remington, knowing not only that the powerful weapon will only be used as a last resort, but as another tool: intimidation. I sprint, harder than my already sprained ankle can take.

"I think he-

Where's Bill? BILL!"

I make it to the fence, but before getting ovr it, I test the shotgun. I turn around and blast a red Honda and racing striped colored Lincoln. Now there's a reminder for ya Bill.

"Who-

Look out!

That's him. GO!"

The chain link fence is padlocked, but a wood box lies beside it and it gives me the leverage to jump it. A flat foot landing sends me to a crouch, but my engine stays roarin, and I sprint leftways down the street. Stupid bastards' cars are in the lot, but not me.

"The Fence!

Wha-Where?

The car comes into view. I bat my left kneecap as I make my way round the hood. The pain is relative now as I swing open the door and slam the ignition.

"His car was nevr--

Gonna kill-

C'mon. Get ovr there."

Luckily, the radiator didn't lose its breath this time. I crash the Sudan in front of me as I go from 0-25 faster than a bloodhound's bark. That's when the gunshots resume.

"BIIIIILL!"

*

Bad news: I got shot at three times, and my car suffered several damages only to the bender. No windshield though! But holes like that should've gotten any half decent cop off his feet. I didn't have time to fire back, but I made it around the block without any injury, and sped the rest of the ways back to my apartment. Natalie saw what became of it, and a very big argument broke out, nothing to egg breakin, but she accepted it. Said she understands the risk I took to help her and her situation, but made me promise never to go SOB again.

Good news: I got away wit it. The money I mean. But I also could rest easy knowing I told Natalie the truth when she asked if I killed anybody.