Copyright© 2010 by Michael Wolfam
Max stepped out of the Jeep Grand Cherokee SRT-8 and surveyed the mining site. His muscular frame cast an imposing shadow on the rocky parking lot. Through his dark tinted aviator sunglasses he noted the worthless guards doing their best to look competent. The Mole, the reason for Max's unannounced trip to this wretched site, was slinking behind the four pickup trucks the workers used to travel between the nearby town of Eagles Nest and the mine.
Like the rest of the miners, he was hired because of his dubious moral fiber and easily corruptible nature. This made The Mole cheap labor since no one else would hire him, but it also created certain, predictable problems. While no other type of miner would ever work for an operation like theirs, it did mean, as head of security, Max had to be extremely watchful of the employees.
Max could hardly blame the guards for their listlessness. Day in and day out it was an incredibly boring job. However, it was their job to perform. After today, he was certain they would start paying much closer attention. "Squeaky wheel gets the greasy bullet," Max eyed the man who was trying his best to turn invisible.
Max felt under his Hugo Boss suit coat jacket for the reassuring feel of his fifty caliber Desert Eagle semi automatic. Like the suit and the Jeep, the gun was excessive, but nothing made a person come around to his way of thinking faster than the chrome plated fifty-caliber hand cannon pointed between their eyes.
The man playing the role of Max preferred a smaller FN Herstal Five-SeveN pistol, like the one tucked into his ankle holster, but the Desert Eagle had become his trademark, a core component of Max's character, and Max owned it.
"Gather the other miners," Max ordered the two guards. "Bring them up forcefully if you have to. Now!" The guards nodded, rushing to obey the order, a fearful look in their eyes.
"You!" thundered Max, removing the Desert Eagle from its shoulder holster and pointing it at The Mole. "Over there," he commanded motioning with the barrel toward a flat spot on the edge of the rocky parking lot. Max pulled a cinnamon flavored toothpick from his breast pocket, stuck it in his mouth and chomped down menacingly.
The Mole knew his number was up. No one would mourn his passing or even think of reporting the incident to the police. Half of the miners were on the run from the law as it was.