Wind and rain flurried about the dim and flickering streetlights, and as Tanner MacBride blew a thick cloud of skunky smoke over the dash of his Ford and into the windshield, he hoped he’d be able to make the shot. The wipers slashed through the relentless deluge, and for all their effort, Tanner could barely discern the driveway, 200 yards to the north, where his quarry, Barry Solomon, soon would be. Over the past twenty minutes, several cars had parked along the street near Solomon’s small yellow house, and as their respective drivers conspiratorially scurried inside and kept the lights out, Tanner envisioned them all hunkered down behind couches and tables, ready to spring out and surprise the homecoming guest of honor with a round of applause and a drunken rendition of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” or something of the like. Well, providing the Bringer of Storms would work with him just a little, Tanner was here to make god damn sure that fat motherfucker never stepped foot inside his humble abode again. 8:47 p.m. and still no sign of Solomon. “Where the fuck are ya?” Tanner said softly as he blew another hit out. Solomon had been released from the Mendocino County Jail at 8:00, and Tanner had been waiting patiently since a quarter after. “Come on motherfucker. Where ya at?” Even though the rain would likely make the shot difficult tonight, it seemed fitting, Tanner mused, that it was pouring much as it had been 87 days before, when a drunken Barry Solomon t-boned and killed Amy MacBride as she drove home from the grocery store with ice cream and a Star Wars cake for her son’s birthday party. Yeah, 87 fucking days and good ol’ Barry Solomon was already on his way home. 87 fucking days in jail, for killing the most beautiful and awesome woman Tanner had ever known: his high school sweetheart, soul mate, wife, and mother of his son. 87 days and Tanner MacBride was beyond livid: but not over the lenient sentence imposed. Fuck the system! Tanner was mad because he’d had to wait so god damn long to kill Solomon. At 9:06, a red Chevy S-10 pulled into the driveway. A giggling grotesque immensity, presumably Solomon’s girlfriend, got out of the driver’s side, and popped an umbrella, and Solomon, seemingly oblivious to the rain, hopped out of the passenger’s side and doing a happy little fat boy jig, began chugging out of a big wine bottle. Bottoms up, Barry boy! Tanner grabbed Addie, his Roger no. 1, chambered for the .300 Winchester Mag, off the seat, stepped out of his Ford, then leaned over the door and put Solomon’s wine chugging face in the cross-hairs of the Leupold. “Fuck you!” Tanner said, then squeezed Addie’s trigger. Solomon’s head evaporated, and the wine bottle, upon hitting the wet driveway, crashed and popped. That fat bitch dropped her umbrella. And Tanner MacBride, satisfied, climbed behind the wheel of his Ford and headed home.