My Gun Is The Jury

My Gun is the JuryI pressed down on the accelerator and a hail of lead spit from the front of my custom-built Maxwell. I was in a hurry, and I didn't want any lousy pedestrians standing in my way. I knew if any simple-minded cop tried slipping me a traffic ticket, Fats Lambo, my pal at the D. A.'s office, would shove it down his regulation-conscious throat. And I was mad. Damn mad! The dirty killer who'd fed arsenic to my pet parakeet was going to get it in the gut. I was going to feed him .45 d...