Creative Ideas

I left the bar when the sun started to dip under the horizon. The humidity hit me like a jealous lover, and threatened strangulation.

My black oxfords clicked on the cobblestone roads of the French Quarter while warm beer moved my feet. I wandered like the wide Mississippi.

Home called. Needed to lock myself up tonight since I'd have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.

Unfortunately the buzz had me feeling too good, and I slipped into a dark alleyway a few blocks from home.

The metal on metal sound of a pistol slide being racked made my ears perked up.

"Don't ya get any funny ideas, Pops."

Guns sober me up good, so I reached for the sky.

"I won't. I'm not the creative type, friend," I said.

"Bon. I got ten bullets in this pistol, and they all pointed at 'chu. Jus' gimme dat gold watch, Pops. Den I leave ya be."

I looked up past my raised hands, and saw clouds floating across the night sky. The full moon glistened. It called to me. It pulled me. I started to tremble and quake.

"Ten bullets?" I asked. "Any of them silver?"

None were.