Northbrook, IL. Early Summer, 1984

Kovanda was a psycho.

Plain and simple.

It’s what you get when you cross psychosis with intense alcoholism and cocaine.

I steered clear, but it was kinda hard when I spent so much time at her house and worked with her dad, brother and Kovanda.

Spend 12 hours a day on a hot roof and the psychosis gets worse.

It’s about midnight, and I’m laying on the couch in the living room, dozing.

I hear the brother and Kovanda come into the house.

I figure the best idea is to play dead, so I slow my breathing and relax from my toes up.

“Who’s the bimbo on the couch?” bellows Kovanda.

Come on, lets go says the brother.

“Who’s the bimbo on the couch?” Bellows Kovanda again.

“You know who that is already,” she says “It’s Scott”.

Shick, shack. The distinct sound of a .45 being racked.

“Put it down already.” She says.

I’m staying calm, trying to not shit myself.

I realize that there is a loaded .45 sitting on the coffee table to my Right, I was playing with it earlier.

Can I reach the .45, rack the slide and take a shot before he shoots me?

I don’t think so.

I know my limitations; I can’t do it. I’m not sure I can pull the trigger on another person.

“Put the gun down, now.” Says the brother.

BLAM goes the .45.

I feel something whistle over my forehead, hear the slug go through the wall to my left and hear a ricochet in the garage on the other side of the wall.

All hell breaks out, people are screaming, cursing, I hear a fist connect with something hard and open my eyes to see the brother slugging Kovanda.

Me? I’m just trying to make sure that I’m still alive.