Yes

"Get him!" a man shouted in French.

The pale man dodged through the back gate of the yard, chugging the beer in his hand as fast as he could. He realized after a moment his life was more important than the alcohol, and with one last swig tossed it aside. As soon as he was sure he was out of sight, he slid behind a wall and pulled a CZ-52 out of his jean jacket. Just as he did two men suddenly came running by. He counted two seconds, then jumped out into the alley, glancing back the way they had come to ensure they were alone.

"Hey!" he cried. They whipped around. One of the men had the good sense to bring his gun around as he turned. He was the first one the man shot. No sense in letting the smart one get the drop on him, and he only needed one mouth; one mouth would talk easier if the other was shut permanently.

"Body armor yah?" the one holding on him said, and he fired. Two 7.62mm rounds went clean through the man's vest, and one caught him in the eye. A halo of blood, and he slumped down, an arrogant expression still on his face.

A man is a fool

A man dies as a fool. In his twenties he's a complete, utter, fucking, king, grade-A prime beef fool. As he ages, he loses adjectives until at last, on his deathbed (or lying in the gutter after being struck by a soccermom in an SUV) he comes to a total understanding of everything he's ever done and experienced, and deicedes that life wasn't all that bad after he figured it out. The problem was that he was figuring it out as his guts were distending from the weight of the Ford Expedition parked on his midsection.

This is how I believe my father felt as he spoke to me from the gutter. Possibly he had meant to call an ambulance, but quick-dialed me by mistake. After a moment's thought, however, I feel he decided that it ws his time and he'd rather speak to his son than a bored 911 operator.

"Son," he said in a labored, wheezing tone, "it's time I told you I'm a fucking idiot."

"Jesus Dad, are you at a brothel again?" I said. He'd called me while he was screwing a whore in Bangkok one time. I'd mistakenly put him on speaker phone while I was at client's restaurant. The worst part was it was an upscale Indonesian joint, and behind my dad's voice I (and the numerous staff of the family owned business) could hear a strongly accented woman's cries of encouragement. I lost the account. They went out of business after a year, but before that happened I didn't talk to my dad for a month.

"Shut up," he said, coughed wetly, then "I want you to live well. Are you? Do you live well?"

"Dad, what's going on?" I could hear excited voices now as well as someone vomitting in the background.

"Just tell me you're happy with your life," he said.

"OK, yes, I'm happy."

"I did you right?"

I was taken aback for a moment. "Yeah, you did fine."

"Good." He hung up at that point. It took twelve hours for the Indiana State Police to send someone over to my house, during which time I was completely oblivious to the fact that my father had died as he hung up on me.