The man is wearing a thick black ski mask, the kind with the gray vertical stitching. He’s got on black leather gloves, at least two hoodies, dark gray sweatpants. In his right hand is a sack, a full sack, a sack bulging with angles and curves and the outlines of Johnny’s prized possessions, although they’re only prized by him. In his other hand is a gun, and it’s not trembling. Not even a little bit.
“Who the fuck’re you…?” Johnny asks as the world churns around him like the juices in his stomach.
The man says nothing, only calmly sets the sack down. Then, he takes a tentative step towards Johnny.
“Who… who’re… woah, woah man, whuh–”
The coasters scatter this way and that as Johnny falls to the floor of his kitchen. The man stands over him, his eyes unblinking, his mouth slightly open, his nose catching the scent of the warm beer on his breath. The butt of the man’s gun – his unloaded gun, as he couldn’t buy any ammo because of his history of group home residencies – is dripping with blood. There was nobody home at the last house. He heard the car drive away before he came out of the woods, he thought everybody left. It wasn’t his fault. Oh well, everybody’s gone now. This place has cooler stuff than the last house did, anyway. It was worth the battle.
The man in the ski mask bends down and picks up the three coasters the gone guy dropped – the fourth one, George’s black coaster, rolled underneath the fridge – and throws them in his sack. With the sack hung over his shoulder like a dark Santa Claus, the man goes to leave, then stops at the back door and turns around.
“I ain’t gunna git cawt. I ain’t gowin’ bak to the groop home.”
By the time the man leaves, his gun is red and sticky up to the trigger guard. There are a few strands of hair stuck to it too, but that’s okay. He can wash it off during his bath in the pond up the road, he’ll be dry by the time gets back to his little shack in the woods. That’ll be enough.
For the burglar man in the black ski mask, that’ll be enough.
Hello Commons, this has been the last subchapter of the fourth story from Convenient Incidents, an anthology of fifteen interconnected short stories which revolve around a man by the name of Hilter Odolf Williamson.
Convenient Incidents is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.
Convenient Incidents is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
If you like Convenient Incidents and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.
Be well Commons~