I sit on the hood of the car and watch myself in the mirror.
I can see my hand shaking as I absentmindedly lift it to my mouth to bite my fingernails.
I resist the temptation. Anyway, there's nothing left of them.
I had given myself five minutes to finally make up my mind,
but really I've already decided: I'm going for it.
Everything has been planned to the finest detail including the
four sets of clothes that have been carefully picked out: Similar
in taste, I suppose, but different enough to give us four separate
looks, right down to the shades.
Even though it's freezing
outside and almost as cold in this fucking barn, I am wearing my 'surfer' look:
Loose, unbuttoned shirt over a t-shirt and combat shorts with my Oakley wraps, which I use to hold my
rather lank, shoulder length hair away from my face.
I check myself over in the mirror again. I've been planning this whole thing for months and
growing it especially for this day, but now I think my hair looks weird and for
a second I consider trimming it a bit.
The scissors, comb and clippers sit
alongside the guns; all my favourites, but the Sawn-off Pump has a
special place in my heart. That is not for me this time, though. After all, I'm just the
driver. I tear myself from the warmth of the hood, tuck the
Automatic into my combats, and take a deep breath: It's almost noon.