The Scene …

Manhattan … 5^th Avenue … the watches in Tiffany’s, clocks in Bergdorf’s and Abercrombie all read 11:50 AM … approaching twelve P.M.

The “Ballad of High Noon” blasts over speakers strung along the designated block of 5^th Avenue.

“Do not forsake me on my darlin’ ….”

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Media vans and emergency vehicles line the Avenue … a “yuuge and biggly” crowd sits in makeshift sidewalk grandstands … lottery winners who ponied-up 5G’s to witness.

The press gallery’s jammed with representatives from around the world … only PBS and Telemundo declined.

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At one end of 5^th, a tall rather orange looking man struts … catching the wind, orangey-blonde-hair-wisps reveal his hidden comb over … squinty eyes peek between face-lifted creases as he stares down his nemesis.

At the other end of the block, a taller, thinner, lanky and relaxed man stands … arms loosely dropped at his side.

His eyes cold and blue … fixed on the pacing bloater … relaxed in the knowledge that he’s been trained in the use of his trusty Glock-9.

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“Unfair,” yells L’Orange.  “Unfair.”

Glancing down at his spanking clean oil-glistened NRA issue AR15 clenched in itty-bitty hands, he bellows, “I don’t know how to use this thing!”

“They didn’t teach you how to fire a weapon in your ‘military school?’  Maybe you shoulda signed up for the FBI … weapons training’s mandatory,” says the Lanky One, a trace of a smile on his face as he strides forward … closing the gap between them.

“Also negotiating … required training … wanna try talking your way outta this?  Rudy and Cohen still on your speed dial?

“Lordy … I’d say you’re in a pickle … I’ll let you go first … go ahead.”

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L’Orange whips the AR15 to his waist and yanks the trigger.

In 45 seconds 100 rounds of 5.56 NATO hollow points strafe the street … dust, asphalt and cement chunks leap into the air … windows blow out from the stores on 5^th Avenue … media vans and emergency vehicles’re riddled … smoking and hissing.

Finger locked on the trigger … L’Orange hears nothing but click-click-click.

As the dust settles two reporters, a TV cameraman, three cable news pundits and sundry GOP ticket holders are victims … just collateral damage.

An unscathed slow moving silent silhouette continues forward.

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The crowd’s still …  cameras rolling.

A shot’s chambered with an ominous click of a Glock-9.

Slowly the Lanky One raises his arm … aims and gently rests his finger on the Glock’s trigger … the front of L’Orange’s cammo pants suddenly darken … totally soaked as a round strikes the pavement inches from his combat boots.

The Lanky One smiles … pivots … waves to the crowd and exits …

Just dreamin’ …