Jeremy came in looking for a gun. He'd been outside. Getting cold. Getting wet. Getting frozen. He came inside to to find his Colt .45 by the fireplace. His Glock G19 next to the stove. And his Beretta 92 laying right in the middle of the floor. Someone had kicked it there. It hadn't just gotten there on its own.
He picked it up. Looking back out the door. Wondering if he should take it with him back outside and go looking for them. Or wait inside till they came looking for him. He pulled back the window curtain just enough to spot two of them coming up the sidewalk. Approaching his door.
He slipped quietly into his closet. It was a wierd closet. This one locked from the inside. Then, he climbed the wall until he was up in the attic. From there, he could see through the floor as the thugs entered his home, laughing.
And, he laughed back. And they heard him. But they didn't know where it was coming from.
Okay, I don't know where this story is going. But you can be sure it ain't going to have a happy ending. Guns bring flowers, you know. The kind that rest on graves.
(Index -- Stories)
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