EB shook his head and tried to clear the cobwebs. His body felt like a punching bag, and he was sure why. Reaching over to feel his trusted weapon, he felt just rotted leather and a rusted solid chunk of metal.
This brought him to full alertness.
“What the fuck,” he thought?
The office looked like an abandoned building EB thought, but then it always looked that way. His wooden chair seemed none the worse for wear. Creaking forward, EB sat up straight and reached for bottom drawer where kept a bottle or two. A day like today might call for scotch, but gods damn it whatever wet his mouth would do for now.
The fucking bottles looked like they had been stored for 20 years! The labels chewed by the roaches over time. But the tops were still intact. EB cracked the top of the bottle and go sans a glass, took a pull from the bottle. With a satisfying burp, EB wiped his mouth, got up and went over to a large safe in his office that was cleverly obscured to look like an oversized file cabinet.
Pulling the rotted leather shoulder holster rig and the lump of metal that used to be a beloved friend, he unceremonially dropped it to the floor. EB dusted himself off surprised he hadn’t woken up naked in an unmarked grave in the desert. Unfortunately, this felt almost as bad.
Pulling the faux filing cabinet open exposed the door to the safe. Carefully turning the dial for the eight positions it took, EB then opened the door with a loud clank and prayed to all of the dark gods that something survived. Stiffly a smile came to his face. Pulling a Remington R1 1911 45acp, EB slapped in Wilson Combat magazine and racked the slide with a well-practiced hand. Pulling out a gun belt with a Galco hi-rise holster and put it on. A couple of double mag carriers completed the rig. The put the bullet count at 40 rounds of 45 ACP caliber bullets within easy reach.
Feeling properly armed, EB reached out and took his brown fedora from the old wooden hat rack. Looking at his battered hat, knowing the journey it had made with him, brought a slight smile. His office never an elegant place now looked more abandoned than he felt. It was never a great neighborhood, but it was home. EB grabbed another box of ammo, slammed the safe shut and went into the bathroom. On a shelf above the toilet, several large travel humidors sat waiting. EB pulled one down, opened the latches and was surprised to find they were still fresh. Taking out an Arturo Fuentes Exquisito Maduro, he bit off the end and reached for a match.
Inhaling deeply, EB thought “There is your first clue. Cigars will keep in a proper humidor up to 25 years. What the fuck is going on”? He would soon find out. Taking another pull from the bottle on his desk, a cigar clamped between his teeth, EB was back.
“Whatever happens now is up to me,” he thought.
EB the Rabbit 