PLOTS WITH GUNS #4 : FALL 2008

I love Remmington shotguns. The .870 is my favorite. Not expensive, built basic and meant to last. I’ve tricked this one out a bit with a pistol grip and a sling. It’s my big gun and weapon of choice when my dog is hot after a really bad guy. Ronnie Allen was really bad. Killing that dude tonight for the fun of it made him even more bad. Being armed with two handguns and a machete made him downright scary. I like to be scared. I wanted Ronnie and shit for damn I was going to get him.

I slung the shotgun over my shoulder and pulled my dog’s harness from the trunk. “Let’s saddle up, big boy, got a crook to catch.” A minute later, myself and two other cops were on track with my partner, a Rottweiler named Dante. Off we went, to find Ronnie in purgatory. Shit for damn.

The dive strobe attached to Dante's tracking harness cut the darkness. I kept him on a thirty foot lead. Didn’t need him getting too close to old Ronnie without me there for help. Big mean dog with nice sharp teeth and twelve hundred pounds per square inch jaw pressure was nice in a good fight. But it didn't stop guns and machetes. Once I got his weapons, I might let Dante have a bite anyway. The simple minded shithead named Ronnie Allen deserved it.

My Mag Lite shot bright beams into scotch broom and tall field grass. Tiger spiders whipped across my face and neck. I hate spiders. I’m more afraid of them than the bad guys I chase. But they like me. After we track in the woods I always find one or two clinging to my hair, wanting to make me a part of their furry and creepy life. Holy shit damn. That's the kind of scary I don't like.

Dante ran with his nose high. The night was clear, the cool Fall air of late September, and with no breeze. Scent often hovers above the ground on nights like this. Air scent for my big boy and he was prancing like a child in daisies as he moved through the brush, breathing deep the strong scent of a righteous criminal. That scent burrowed into Dante’s olfactory and he wanted Ronnie as bad as I did. A low growl came from my devil dog as he pulled hard on the lead.

The two cops we'd started the track with were gone. I could still hear them gasping behind us, out of shape from too much food, beer and cigarettes. So much for backing up the dog handler. Finding cops that could stay with my partner and me was slim pickings. No big deal. I wanted Ronnie on my terms and nobody else’s. The rotten son of a bitch.

We came to a tall freeway fence. Thank God, no barb wire at the top. Dante stood there looking through the wire mesh. The low growl was replaced by an anxious whine. I think he remembered the last time I had to shove his one hundred and five pound ass over a fence. We have to do that once in a while. Dante boy doesn't like it a bit.

My bud was in luck. Ronnie hadn't gone over. He'd crawled and burrowed under the wire like the worm he is. I chose the same spot to lift the wire and guide Dante under. I was up and over the fence two seconds later. Dante was moving already and I grabbed the end of the lead before he got too far ahead of me. We were back on it. For a brief second I think I caught Ronnie's scent also. Stale cigarettes and too much booze. Slime bag.

Dante got more excited. I stopped him with the lead and listened. Old Ronnie was crashing through the bush ahead of us, running parallel to the freeway. I whispered to Dante, “Seek him out, big guy,” and we started moving again. I held tight to the leash. It was three in the morning but I could still hear the occasional Saturday night drunk roaring by on the freeway, well in excess of the posted speed. I didn't need my four-legged friend getting squashed. Ronnie was staying close to the fence, though, and well away from the freeway traffic.

I radioed my direction and location to dispatch and the patrol units working the roads around us. They would be adjusting the perimeter, using their patrol cars to keep Ronnie boxed in. Hopefully, I would catch the dirt bag before he busted out on one of them. Hell, I was doing the hard stuff, even if I was having the time of my life. I ought to get the rewards.

Dante stopped along the fence, pawed the ground and came with the whine again. Ronnie had crossed back under and so did we. I used my radio to advise location again as we headed into some deep woods and away from my perimeter help. We were really on our own now.

Ronnie was closer. I could hear him gasping for air as he stumbled more than ran. I was closing on him. He stopped. So did I. I killed my flashlight and stood silent, listening for his next move. He started shooting. I hit the ground.

He didn't know exactly where I was but I could still hear the occasional bullet whistle through the brush close to me. Dante was out ahead of me and I hoped one of those rounds wouldn't catch him in the ten ring. He came back to me and I pulled him to the ground. Ronnie kept shooting.

When he finally stopped shooting I'd counted in excess of twenty rounds. I knew he must be damn short on ammo. Ronnie started yelling. I turned my radio off and listened to his rant.

“Hey, pole leese man. Where are you, motherfucker. Come get me chickenshit. Ronnie ain't scared of no pussy motherfucker like you. Come on now.”

I stayed where I was and listened quietly. My hand was on Dante's muzzle to keep him quiet too. My heart was pounding like a kettle drum, both from the running and also the adrenaline of Ronnie's gunfire. I felt fear coming on strong. I was controlling it and loving the feeling at the same time. Life didn't get better than this.

I rose to a low crouch and detached the lead from Dante, letting it fall to the ground but holding tight to his collar. We began to move slowly and quietly through the brush. I could hear Ronnie muttering to himself about what a bad person I was and then I heard a soft thud. Ronnie had just plunked his sorry ass on the ground.

Dante and I continued our movement in a circular manner. I hoped to get all the way around and behind him. But at the very least I had to flank him. Two minutes of movement and a lot of listening to “stupid motherfucker chickenshit” from Ronnie, I was on his flank, about fifteen yards away. Dante growled. I felt Ronnie alert to our presence and he stood up. I let my partner loose and he raced towards Ronnie just as he started shooting again.

Dante never made it. I heard him yelp and then felt the impact of his body crashing to the ground. He began to thrash and cry. At least he was alive. My flashlight was back on and I raced towards Ronnie. I was shooting now. Try to kill my partner, dick wad. I pumped seven rounds of double ought in Ronnie's direction. At least one round hit him and he winced and spun around.

Ronnie had hit me twice. My right ear was on fire and a dull ache ran through my thigh. But I still came at him. My shotgun was empty. My flashlight caught Ronnie off and on in brief frames of bright like the old disco lights. He must have been out of ammo because that's when he pulled the machete from his belt. I tossed my empty shotgun at him and it hit him hard in the face. Then I threw my flashlight at him and the light spun crazily past his head and into the bush beyond. We were all in the dark.

A smart cop would have held up, pulled his handgun and shot him. But when I get this way my temper wipes all of the smart cop out of me. Shit damn, and that's the truth. So, it was a dumb cop that crashed into Ronnie at full speed. He dropped the machete and we went down with me on top and him thrashing wildly like a snake. That's when I found out how strong Ronnie was. He grabbed me by my shoulders and pushed me off him like I was a small child. When I felt his bulk, I started to feel like one.

I struck out with my right fist and caught him somewhere on the face. I did it again. And again. Then I kicked him in what I thought was his groin area. He let out a moan and I knew I'd got it right. The moan was quickly followed with a scream of rage and he started punching and kicking back at me. He connected on my wounded thigh and I let out my own moan. The leg hurt like hell.

Ronnie was on top of me now and his hard and fast fists crashed down on my face and head. He stopped punching and grabbed my head with both hands and slammed it into the ground one, two and three times. I knew I'd black out if I didn't stop him. But then Ronnie got stupid and stood up. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I saw him bend down for something. I knew it was the machete.

By now my controlled fear was squashing my temper. I got smart again. I didn't wait another second. As Ronnie's large outline loomed over me I pulled my .40 caliber Glock from its holster and pumped six rounds into him. He fell to the ground off to the side and I shot him twice more just to make sure. I whispered to his lifeless corpse, “Whose the motherfucker now, Mr. Ronnie Allen, you simple minded scum bag?”

Dante panted heavily in the brush not far from me. I rose up and stumbled over and he licked my hand as I sat down next to him. I ran my hand over his body and felt the warm stickiness of blood on his right hip. He'd make it.

I pulled my radio from its belt holder, turned it back on, keyed the mic and said, “I'm in the woods with a dead guy. Bring detectives, medics and a damn good vet for my partner. And a coroner too, right Ronnie? Okay boys, follow the shots and come find me.”

Putting my radio down, I pointed my gun in the air and fired three shots. Sirens screamed in the distance, tires screeched and cops yelled as they ran toward me. My leg throbbed and my ear burned. The rest of my body hurt like hell too. I laid Dante's head in my lap and stroked it. I sat for a minute and looked at the stars in the sky. They seemed sharper, with a clarity I had never observed before. I guess that's the effect of a near death experience.

I laid back in the grass and waited. Fear was gone, replaced by a quiet calm. It felt almost tranquil. That was the most fun I've had in my life. Thanks, Ronnie Allen. Shit for damn.


	I love Remmington shotguns. The .870 is my favorite. Not expensive, built basic and meant to last. I’ve tricked this one out a bit with a pistol grip and a sling. It’s my big gun and weapon of choice when my dog is hot after a really bad guy. Ronnie Allen was really bad. Killing that dude tonight for the fun of it made him even more bad. Being armed with two handguns and a machete made him downright scary. I like to be scared. I wanted Ronnie and shit for damn I was going to get him. I slung the shotgun over my shoulder and pulled my dog’s harness from the trunk. “Let’s saddle up, big boy, got a crook to catch.” A minute later, myself and two other cops were on track with my partner, a Rottweiler named Dante. Off we went, to find Ronnie in purgatory. Shit for damn. The dive strobe attached to Dante's tracking harness cut the darkness. I kept him on a thirty foot lead. Didn’t need him getting too close to old Ronnie without me there for help. Big mean dog with nice sharp teeth and twelve hundred pounds per square inch jaw pressure was nice in a good fight. But it didn't stop guns and machetes. Once I got his weapons, I might let Dante have a bite anyway. The simple minded shithead named Ronnie Allen deserved it. My Mag Lite shot bright beams into scotch broom and tall field grass. Tiger spiders whipped across my face and neck. I hate spiders. I’m more afraid of them than the bad guys I chase. But they like me. After we track in the woods I always find one or two clinging to my hair, wanting to make me a part of their furry and creepy life. Holy shit damn. That's the kind of scary I don't like. Dante ran with his nose high. The night was clear, the cool Fall air of late September, and with no breeze. Scent often hovers above the ground on nights like this. Air scent for my big boy and he was prancing like a child in daisies as he moved through the brush, breathing deep the strong scent of a righteous criminal. That scent burrowed into Dante’s olfactory and he wanted Ronnie as bad as I did. A low growl came from my devil dog as he pulled hard on the lead. The two cops we'd started the track with were gone. I could still hear them gasping behind us, out of shape from too much food, beer and cigarettes. So much for backing up the dog handler. Finding cops that could stay with my partner and me was slim pickings. No big deal. I wanted Ronnie on my terms and nobody else’s. The rotten son of a bitch. We came to a tall freeway fence. Thank God, no barb wire at the top. Dante stood there looking through the wire mesh. The low growl was replaced by an anxious whine. I think he remembered the last time I had to shove his one hundred and five pound ass over a fence. We have to do that once in a while. Dante boy doesn't like it a bit. My bud was in luck. Ronnie hadn't gone over. He'd crawled and burrowed under the wire like the worm he is. I chose the same spot to lift the wire and guide Dante under. I was up and over the fence two seconds later. Dante was moving already and I grabbed the end of the lead before he got too far ahead of me. We were back on it. For a brief second I think I caught Ronnie's scent also. Stale cigarettes and too much booze. Slime bag. Dante got more excited. I stopped him with the lead and listened. Old Ronnie was crashing through the bush ahead of us, running parallel to the freeway. I whispered to Dante, “Seek him out, big guy,” and we started moving again. I held tight to the leash. It was three in the morning but I could still hear the occasional Saturday night drunk roaring by on the freeway, well in excess of the posted speed. I didn't need my four-legged friend getting squashed. Ronnie was staying close to the fence, though, and well away from the freeway traffic. I radioed my direction and location to dispatch and the patrol units working the roads around us. They would be adjusting the perimeter, using their patrol cars to keep Ronnie boxed in. Hopefully, I would catch the dirt bag before he busted out on one of them. Hell, I was doing the hard stuff, even if I was having the time of my life. I ought to get the rewards. Dante stopped along the fence, pawed the ground and came with the whine again. Ronnie had crossed back under and so did we. I used my radio to advise location again as we headed into some deep woods and away from my perimeter help. We were really on our own now. Ronnie was closer. I could hear him gasping for air as he stumbled more than ran. I was closing on him. He stopped. So did I. I killed my flashlight and stood silent, listening for his next move. He started shooting. I hit the ground. He didn't know exactly where I was but I could still hear the occasional bullet whistle through the brush close to me. Dante was out ahead of me and I hoped one of those rounds wouldn't catch him in the ten ring. He came back to me and I pulled him to the ground. Ronnie kept shooting. When he finally stopped shooting I'd counted in excess of twenty rounds. I knew he must be damn short on ammo. Ronnie started yelling. I turned my radio off and listened to his rant. “Hey, pole leese man. Where are you, motherfucker. Come get me chickenshit. Ronnie ain't scared of no pussy motherfucker like you. Come on now.” I stayed where I was and listened quietly. My hand was on Dante's muzzle to keep him quiet too. My heart was pounding like a kettle drum, both from the running and also the adrenaline of Ronnie's gunfire. I felt fear coming on strong. I was controlling it and loving the feeling at the same time. Life didn't get better than this. I rose to a low crouch and detached the lead from Dante, letting it fall to the ground but holding tight to his collar. We began to move slowly and quietly through the brush. I could hear Ronnie muttering to himself about what a bad person I was and then I heard a soft thud. Ronnie had just plunked his sorry ass on the ground. Dante and I continued our movement in a circular manner. I hoped to get all the way around and behind him. But at the very least I had to flank him. Two minutes of movement and a lot of listening to “stupid motherfucker chickenshit” from Ronnie, I was on his flank, about fifteen yards away. Dante growled. I felt Ronnie alert to our presence and he stood up. I let my partner loose and he raced towards Ronnie just as he started shooting again. Dante never made it. I heard him yelp and then felt the impact of his body crashing to the ground. He began to thrash and cry. At least he was alive. My flashlight was back on and I raced towards Ronnie. I was shooting now. Try to kill my partner, dick wad. I pumped seven rounds of double ought in Ronnie's direction. At least one round hit him and he winced and spun around. Ronnie had hit me twice. My right ear was on fire and a dull ache ran through my thigh. But I still came at him. My shotgun was empty. My flashlight caught Ronnie off and on in brief frames of bright like the old disco lights. He must have been out of ammo because that's when he pulled the machete from his belt. I tossed my empty shotgun at him and it hit him hard in the face. Then I threw my flashlight at him and the light spun crazily past his head and into the bush beyond. We were all in the dark. A smart cop would have held up, pulled his handgun and shot him. But when I get this way my temper wipes all of the smart cop out of me. Shit damn, and that's the truth. So, it was a dumb cop that crashed into Ronnie at full speed. He dropped the machete and we went down with me on top and him thrashing wildly like a snake. That's when I found out how strong Ronnie was. He grabbed me by my shoulders and pushed me off him like I was a small child. When I felt his bulk, I started to feel like one. I struck out with my right fist and caught him somewhere on the face. I did it again. And again. Then I kicked him in what I thought was his groin area. He let out a moan and I knew I'd got it right. The moan was quickly followed with a scream of rage and he started punching and kicking back at me. He connected on my wounded thigh and I let out my own moan. The leg hurt like hell. Ronnie was on top of me now and his hard and fast fists crashed down on my face and head. He stopped punching and grabbed my head with both hands and slammed it into the ground one, two and three times. I knew I'd black out if I didn't stop him. But then Ronnie got stupid and stood up. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I saw him bend down for something. I knew it was the machete. By now my controlled fear was squashing my temper. I got smart again. I didn't wait another second. As Ronnie's large outline loomed over me I pulled my .40 caliber Glock from its holster and pumped six rounds into him. He fell to the ground off to the side and I shot him twice more just to make sure. I whispered to his lifeless corpse, “Whose the motherfucker now, Mr. Ronnie Allen, you simple minded scum bag?” Dante panted heavily in the brush not far from me. I rose up and stumbled over and he licked my hand as I sat down next to him. I ran my hand over his body and felt the warm stickiness of blood on his right hip. He'd make it. I pulled my radio from its belt holder, turned it back on, keyed the mic and said, “I'm in the woods with a dead guy. Bring detectives, medics and a damn good vet for my partner. And a coroner too, right Ronnie? Okay boys, follow the shots and come find me.” Putting my radio down, I pointed my gun in the air and fired three shots. Sirens screamed in the distance, tires screeched and cops yelled as they ran toward me. My leg throbbed and my ear burned. The rest of my body hurt like hell too. I laid Dante's head in my lap and stroked it. I sat for a minute and looked at the stars in the sky. They seemed sharper, with a clarity I had never observed before. I guess that's the effect of a near death experience. I laid back in the grass and waited. Fear was gone, replaced by a quiet calm. It felt almost tranquil. That was the most fun I've had in my life. Thanks, Ronnie Allen. Shit for damn.
	Stanley is a retired cop from the states who now lives the quiet life with his wife and two dogs on a small island in the Georgia Straits of British Columbia, Canada.