Life Expectancy

by Dean Koontz

“We’re probably misjudging Virgilio,” Jimmy said. “If Konrad Beezo thought he was a monster, then he’s probably a saint,” I reasoned. “Because when was anything Konrad said ever less than full-on nuts?”

For a few minutes we stood entranced, still aware of the weight of our wardrobes, pistols heavy in our holsters, but all thought of danger relegated to the backs of our minds.

Out of this bedazzlement of wingless birds, one of the men soared high off a bar, twirled in midair, folded into a somersault position, and tumbled down, down. At the last moment he spread his arms like wings, came out of the ball position, and landed on his back in the safety net. He bounced high, bounced again, rolled to the edge of the net, and dropped to the ground, on point like a ballet star, his arms raised above his head, as though he had just completed an entrechat.