Chongo took a deep draw on his cuban while wondering over the length of Magenta's gams. "If that slit in her dress were any higher I'd have to convert, he thought, 'cause I'd damn sure be looking at the promised land." And just where the hell had that poem come from? He hadn't read any in so long. Not his bunch of bananas as it were.

The hair on his back and nape began to crawl skyward in pure simian fear. His mind began screaming Bundalo! Bundalo! Chongo surreptitiously glanced around to see what was setting of his inner lizard. The guy in black over there, just outside his periferal vision. Looking over like a baleful moon across the moors. Chongo's heart rate sped considerably. It was fight or flight time and he didn't even know his enemy.

In an instant the man looked away. Not even a second had passed and yet Chongo felt years older. The rest of the room came back into being around him although he couldn't remember having gone into such concentration. He quickly downed a whiskey and removed his trembling hand from his .45. It had gone there of it's own account, seeking the safety and solidness of the semi-auto's cold hard steel.