Hugo's Uranium Bullet / 2 June 1996
They looped the rope around his belt buckle and tossed him off the side of the roof. Hugo’s fingernails grabbed racing brick but nothing stopped his descent except Miko, massive, well-dressed, holding the other end of the rope with one meaty, veiny hand. He swung Hugo back and forth in an idle manner, like a kid trying to build up steam on the swingset.
Hugo’s arms flailed wildly, his bare feet kicked at windowsills and rotting ledges. His entire weight was bearing down on his cheap leather belt, which creaked and groaned. There were some honks thirty stories below and Hugo wondered if they were for him.
Miko grabbed the rope with his other hand and hauled Hugo up a few feet. “I’m giving you … fifteen seconds,” he announced.
“Make it twenty,” Hugo cried from below. “Twenty … with twenty I can think of a really good answer.”
“Don’t think, just answer. My arms are getting tired. I’m not as fit as I used to be.”
Miko wasn’t going to listen, and Hugo had nothing to say, really. Hugo braced himself against the wall with his feet and fished his gun out from his sock. There was one left, he knew, one for his friend on the other end of the umbilical cord. He fired, quickly, a little too quick, but there was no time to aim. Miko’s knee exploded and they both tumbled towards the street where hot dogs were being adorned with relish and umbrellas were just now being opened.