Having a gun pointed at your head really puts things in perspective. No matter how many times it's happened to me, it still makes everything else seem unimportant. Overdue taxes? No problem. Stalker ex-boyfriend? Big deal. Laundry left in the washing machine for three days that's probably growing mold? Small potatoes.
"I see you have a gun," I said calmly, keeping my posture relaxed and my voice neutral.
"No shit," Rodney replied. "I have a gun and it's pointed at your head and I'ma bust a cap in your ass if you move one muscle."
I could de-escalate. I could do the negotiator thing and make him put it down. It was possible. I knew Rodney; he was just a good guy with a bad tempter. But this was the third time this week that my life had been in mortal danger, and my near-infinite reserves of patience had finally run dry.
"Y'hear me, bitch?" Rodney demanded.
I rolled my eyes. "Bite me."
He pulled the trigger.
And nothing happened. He glanced at the gun with a look of surprise on his face. A split second later, he was face down on the ground with his arm pinned behind his back.
"Here's a friendly piece of advice," I said, keeping one knee on his back and wrenching the gun from his grip. "Next time you want to "bust a cap" in someone, take the safety off first."