Part 1: The Habit

It was the kind of morning that doesn’t even come late. The kind of morning that doesn’t come, because the queen-size, pillow-top mattress that rests on a king-size, Sealy mattress feels too good to awake from. If I had only stayed in bed, what now seems like a dream to me today wouldn’t be reality. With great struggle, my legs began to slide off the edge of the bed. With one pair of brown sandals, a pair of khaki shorts, a cold, sleeveless t-shirt from the bedroom floor, a blue Nautica jacket, two hand cannons at a net worth of one- thousand, nine hundred dollars, one of which was tucked in my waist and the other strapped to my back, below my shoulder, and a black duffle bag, weighing approximately twelve pounds, I proceeded out the front door. The kind of day where habit overrides any doubt or fear and the mere thought of a problem occurring doesn’t exist. As my car door slammed shut in front of a populated, Mid-town sub shop, I was reminded that I could take as long as I desired, for the type of job I had never came with deadlines. The stretch of highway in front of me seemed to know me better than ever, and as it opened up for me I turned into the left lane and continued down the road. As my destination became close, I turned off the ever-familiar stretch of concrete and passed a bright, orange gas station. Why was there an unmarked, white car pulling out of the almost deserted parking lot, I thought, and better yet why were they following me so closely? Then, suddenly, the gray road I was driving on, turned blue. As the fierce, blue-lit enforcer proceeded to pull me over, I calmly reached under my arm and released the buttoned-snap that held a Kimber, nineteen-eleven under my shoulder and quickly placed it in the crack between the driver seat and the door.