What's the plural of next of kin? --OR-- Gun-running at Terrible Herbst

Next ofs kin?

My driver stated, "Stop making me laugh, I don't want to have to poop again!"

His phone rings. A cry of, "WHAT?!?!?!" could clearly be heard, in response to what was potentially his last text message ever, something about us going to pick up a gun, and that we weren't sure if anything was going to go down, and that, well, if we weren't seen or heard from again--well, something went down. (Of course, this was condensed into 160 characters as SMS messages would allow, and written in ultra-one-handed typing speak, as one does, driving 60 miles an hour up Mountain Vista).


It would be funny if it weren't all completely true. (Okay, it's still funny)

We arrived at the initial pick-up point, noting an ajar garage door, half-chuckling about our impending doom. I mentioned to my cohort that I wasn't going to take my shoes off--new wood floors or not, I might be dead in a minute. A gentle bang on the door brought the house's matriarch quickly, exclaiming, "GO. Just GO. Get out of here. Get in your car and leave!" About-face and towards the Matrix in a half-trot. Was she laughing... or crying?

Straight out of the Three Stooges (you know, the one where they have the car, the remote door unlocker, and the bad timing of trying to lift up the handle just as the door is unlocked, thus rendering it unopenable?), I try to get in the car. (See prior parenthesis). 30 seconds later we're driving off, hoping for the explanatory phone call.

It came. "Pecos and Windmill. Gas station. Buy her a drink"

We pull into Terrible Herbst and wait. The white convertible comes. I saunter over with a kevlar lock-box. A clunk announces that the passenger door is unlocked, and I dial in the last number on the box. It opens with a gentle 'click'. A .38 is wrapped in blue fabric--probably a mumu. I forget all about my prints as I place the gun safely into the foam receptacle, close the lid, and dial-out the digits. I went inside and bought the delivery agent a Pepsi. Not diet, that'd be cruel, and she had to go back to the warehouse.

Thank Christ that no bump brought a gunshot from the trunk. Perhaps if the rear would have been loaded with a few more crates of Rifles, Rocket-Propelled Grenades, or otherwise, the lockbox wouldn't have slid around as much.

That's an awesome gun-running car.