I checked the mirror. I would definitely have to lose the Bermuda shorts and flip flops, but I wondered if I had the right outfit and accessories for this soirée or if I’d have to destroy some work clothing to get the job done.
As luck would have it, my two week old
jeans were right where I’d dropped them, half standing of their own
volition against the west bedroom wall. I could have gone with the
shirtless look, all the thugs were doing it, just skin and jacket and
call it good; but I decided I might need bandage material and rather
than wearing a corpsman toolbelt with assorted gauzes and tape, I
selected a clean t-shirt that could be ripped into squares if necessary.
Then the colors, the low top cowboy hat complete with doggie
choke chain and authentic squirrel tail, the pointy toed shitkickers,
the fingerless black leather gloves, the skull rings, Harley primary
chain belt, Vietnamese tasseled armband and spurs.
slipped my one and a half inch open end wrench into my belt, my stiletto
into my custom boot compartment and a 9 ounce sap into my jacket wine
I took one last look. I was hoping to intimidate a few
adversaries into finding another target. If I were many of them, I’d
back off from what faced me in the glass. Gang wars though were such a
crap shoot. Sure as hell I’d show up dressed for bear and they’d show up
with an elephant gun.