Hands up!


There wasn’t much time left. Ben McLane covered in sweat, ready to explode. It was the same every time before a big show, and they were waiting for him. Everyone of them patiently waiting to die before this man. That’s the kind of man McLane was. He closed his eyes to fight the jitters.

Cold feet?

“No way!” He said to himself. “I’m Ben McLane and I’ve rocked’em every time!”

I grew up in this town, they’re all gonna freak when they see me. 

“O-oh! I can’t wait to see their faces.”

McLane winked at himself in the mirror and drank from his whiskey till it was gone. He put the bottle down and cleared his throat, it hurt from chain-smoking. Unfiltered, that was his kind.

The only kind for real men. He thought to himself with a smile. 

He strapped his instrument on tight and held it with a violent grip, took a deep breath − one he never let out, and began for the crowd. With a jerk at his chin, he knocked his shades on and it was showtime.

Ben McLane stood wide, his chest out and a grin on his face that only he knew. He met everyone’s eyes before firing two shots.





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