The rosary dangled to and fro, pinched at the end by the fingers of the only man I could ever consider my rival. Especially now, what with him having kidnapped me and all. He pretty much thought he had the upper hand, though, gun clenched tight in his other hand, aimed right at me, but not anywhere in particular.

The words came from his mouth, framed in stubble that seemed to be a couple days old, black, like the crop of hair on his head. The words, “Who did you get this from?”, and “You better answer me this time, or so help me…” rang around in the silence of the cold, mostly metal room he’d brought me to languish in. Unfortunately for him, this felt just like home.

He was a bit too confident, it seemed, as he simply let me stand up and pull out my own gun that I had holstered, as one might say, in the waistband of my jeans, barely concealed by the black shirt I wore. His confidence quickly melted when he saw that I also wore a smirk, as I looked in his eyes and spoke.

“I got it from your Mother.”

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