The last stand of James Robert Lee

“C’mon out, Jimmie!” Sheriff Madison yelled through the megaphone. “We got y’all surrounded.”

James R. Lee sat up in his bed and parted the blinds to look outside. His eyes wouldn’t focus over his throbbing skull. After a few seconds, he saw Madison’s cruiser parked in the gravel driveway. The lights were flashing and Madison was wearing those huge aviator glasses which made him look like a fat Burt Reynolds.

“Shit.” Jimmie said, stubbing his toe on the empty bottle of old number seven. The fine people in Lynchburg Tennessee had kept him sleeping until noon. Jimmie couldn’t think of a good escape plan, so he grabbed his pistol to make a charge out to the woods.

“Drop that gun!” Madison yelled as Jimmie darted across the lawn.

A shotgun blast hit James. He stood back up and fired his pistol into a deputy’s leg. The shotgun fired again and again while everyone else stood in shock. Jimmie wouldn’t fall. Finally, the firing stopped and James fell.

“I loaded up birdshot by mistake.” The deputy admitted.

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