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.