Mean Mr. Businessman

The man ran breathlessly down the road away from the gunshots, gasping like a pug. He was stupendous, like a porterhouse steak. Sweat drizzled down his forehead and glazed cheeks like icing. He left a trail of slime behind him on the pavement.

Two gangly peace officers gangled behind him with their six-shooters raised, banging and spanging bullets off lampposts and railings, everything but their target. Passers-by fell like flies. Cars exploded. Houses fell over.

But the stampeding man stampeded on. Over the crest of the hill he ran, through the gates to the city observatory. There, on a palatial lawn, mint green in the sunlight, the shadow of a helicopter stretched out from under a whirring machine.

The rotors scythed the air. The door slid open. Mean Mr. Businessman, for that was his name, grinned and barrelled over. Cop cars wailed into view, their windscreens glaring. Mr. Businessman found two Uzis under the seat and, as the chopper began rising, he turned and sprayed lead at the blue uniforms below.