* * *
Jon stares down on the cart, the man, and a large, brown, and black dog. The ambling canine appears without a leash, making his way willingly at heel, to the unwavering man still walking in some kind of calm perfection, a peace that appears to overcome all interference.
“I am going to kill them,” is Jon’s final, spoken assessment, as the Gypsy advances, twisting, rocking back and forth, then back and forth again in its struggle to accede to the combative physics. Not experiencing near enough feel for slowing, let alone the reality of stopping in time, Jon repeats, “I am going to kill them both.” Jon’s growing sensation is that of the imminent, sickly kill-fate. The kill zone established, the kill fate acknowledged, the only thing left is the execution of the performance art necessary to resolve all matters. The end times for some, mere darkness for others.
“End times for some, the mere darkness for others,” mutters Jon, his spoken mantra from long ago matching his slowing, self-serving assessment. “Perhaps this guy is the one they always talked about,” considers Jon, “The one I was never supposed to kill, but who dies in the mix anyway.”
Jon stops his thinking, he hasn’t thought of ‘kill-fate’ in a very, very long time,” his thoughts flash back to bits and pieces of his sniping tours. “This guy,” Jon’s considers, regretful, “The dog and this guy are absolutely oblivious to what is going on.”
Thinking of the oblivion observed, Jon recalls how he witnessed this phenomenon so many times in a long ago lifetime of sniping. All he could do was to stare helpless, as the hunching man and the dog continue their casual stroll from dark to light, into, and through the kill-zone. They never once adjust their pace, never once look up, and never once indicate any interest in the prospect of eminent death.
Jon cannot understand, commenting, “They are not looking up,” his struggle with this implausible scenario intensifies. “They--” Jon stops, his thinking flies apart, then he re-focuses, there is no breathing in fright, no panic as Jon again jerks hard at the wheel, trying to push the unrelenting Gypsy in some additional and weird direction, anything away and enough to accomplish some meaningful evasion.
“What is this?” Jon screams into the Gypsy’s massive windshield, confused.
* * *