chupple mcswing (part III)

Three minutes later, three men, in suits, walked into the bar. They were hit men. The man that they were looking for was sitting at the bar, in front of an empty glass. The bartender looked at the hit men entering and muscled, in a grunt, toward his only patron, “That’s it McSwing, you’re done”.
McSwing looked in the mirror behind the bar and analyzed the three poppers. Then he fell off his stool, feigning a drunken stupor, and groped around on the floor for a while, while the three men grinned at each other.
None of the three killers saw it coming. The bartender had heard about it, but that night he saw it. While on the floor, sliding his way through the spilt beer, cigar ash and empty packs of cigarettes, McSwing removed the skin from his right arm. “It wasn’t really an arm, after all!” the bartender would tell his boss, Jack, later. It was an extremely modified sawed-off ten-gauge shotgun. McSwing racked the weapon, and slammed it home.

The last thing that the biggest man heard was the dreaded “chick-chook” of the round being chambered. Then the roar. The other two took heavy damage from the initial blast. One, named Chuck, understood what was happening as soon as he saw the big man go down. Chuck reached for his piece, a trusty Desert Eagle .45, which always reminded him of his father, Java Joe. But Chuck’s attempt to reach for his weapon was interrupted by a sudden realization that Chuck’s right arm no longer existed. Chuck knew that was bad news for him, and he also knew what was next, him. He was right on the former, but slightly incorrect on the latter, if only for a moment, and during that moment before the third roar from the surprise cannon, Chuck thought of his father. He remembered seeing his father in the hospital, on his deathbed, dying of stomach cancer.