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...Yet Mr. M stops and turns halfway around, as if in disbelief that you would pull such an audacious move at three in the afternoon. You swear he looks angry, even though it's honestly too far to tell.  His monocle is right out in the open however.  That damn monicle!  how does it stay in place?

    He gives you just enough time to land the second round somewhere in his right side.  Not fatal probably, but it will slow him down.  You'll take what you can get.

    You'll have to.  Mr. M spins and is off again, clutching his wound. As you stumble and wheeze out onto the sidewalk again, Mr. M is gone.  With the Ruger tucked into your pants, and your hands resting exhaustedly on your aching knees you see no other alleys or open sewer hatches to hide in.  But the No. 13 bus is just pulling away, and you know its route well.  Last stop for number 13: the hotel at Parkplace, right next to the boardwalk.

Forget it, he's gone. Better make $80,000 some other way.

Uh oh. No one's written this branch yet. :o

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