I’m still told that someday somebody will stab me for my sharp tongue. Believe me, these days I rarely reveal my holster. You won’t even hear a click.
Even if there always seems to be smoke.
I don’t know what it is about my shoes or the way I walk, but I still manage to surprise people behind their backs.
Or from the front.
I prefer things that way: peaceful and hushed.
Every real menace creeps in the night. Or only glints in the sun.
Five steps ahead, two reactions too late.