What's a mere 45,000 words between friends?

First of all The Guitarman would like you all to know that he has not been at a loss for words. You know that is not possible. He can go all political on your ass at any second. But not today. You see, he has been consumed lately with finishing something he started like five years ago. Something he though he would never do in his lifetime. No, not writing in the third person. I wrote a novel. Seriuously. And today, I'll give a little taste:


The little man in the classic bowler hat nervously scanned the street before he scurried on his way. Though a penetrating rain swept across the block, he firmly kept his umbrella tucked under one arm. He shouldn’t be running for his life like this. He knew there was a contract on his life, and that is why he was shuffling to Heathrow with as many of his belongings stuffed into his tattered suitcase as it could hold.
At the end of his street, he paused under the streetlamp and nervously craned his neck side to side, praying for a cab.
“Damn! Never when you need one,” he muttered to no one. Pellets of rain stung his cheeks like bits of gravel in a wind storm, the water dripping from his spectacles in a blurry cascade.
Turning right, he hustled down the sidewalk. Then he saw him.
Where did he come from? the man thought to himself.
He slowed his pace and tried to focus through the rain. Probably just out for his evening constitutional, he convinced himself. He crossed to the other side of the street. His face went pale when the shadowy figure crossed as well.
The man stopped in his tracks. The figure kept coming.
“I had no choice!” he yelled down the street.
The figure kept coming.
“I was going to lose my job! My house! My bloody life! Everything!”
The figure steadily stalked towards the man, pulling something from under his jacket.
“For God’s sake, I had no choice!” pleaded the man.
The figure stopped ten feet away, gun at his side.
The man wasn’t sure if his trousers were soaked through from the rain, or if he indeed wet himself. “Wait!” he exclaimed, “I’ll pay you. More than you’re making now. Nobody has to know. I’ll disappear.”
Stone silence. The only sound that of the drenching rain.
“Please!” begged the man, letting go of his belongings and dropping to his knees. Under the shadow of the night, the man could not see the wry smirk on the killer’s face.
“SAY SOMETHING!!” screamed the man, not knowing at the time that these would be the last words he would utter in his life. The figure raised his silenced gun, and put a bullet in between the man’s eyes. He said nothing.
Two blocks away he spied a cab coming around the corner. He flagged it down, and got in. He uttered but one word. “Heathrow.”


I know, I know. I am not Clancy, nor Creighton, nor King, not even Dr. Suess. It's not very long, 45,000 words is about the length of a Jack Higgins novel. But it took me a long time. A really long time. So if you want to read more, send me a note, and I'll forward it to you. Maybe. After I get the copyright filed.