Oops…A short story…

“Good morning, sir. I hate to interrupt your morning, but we’ve been called to check a domestic disturbance at this address. Is everything alright?”

I stare at the police on my lawn and shove my hands into my pajama pockets. “What in the world?”

“Morning, officers. Are you sure you’ve got the right address? I live by myself. There is no one here but me and my dog.”

“We can’t just take your word for it, sir. May we come in?”

“Not unless you have a warrant.”

The short officer laughs. He reminds me of a roly-poly. He is about 5’3, 260 lbs, and has a shifty look about him. Greasy, that’s the word I’m looking for. He turns to his partner and smirks. 

“This hillbilly thinks he has us over a barrel.”

His partner, equally shifty looking, grins at me. He nods his head, as if contemplating what comes next.

“Then, I guess we better go get the warrant. We will be back, soon. Don’t go nowhere.”

“I’ll be right here.”

I watched their vehicle until it disappeared from view. I dial the police station and ask if they’ve dispatched a car to my address. 

“Sir, no car has been dispatched to your address for any reason. Did these two men say why they were there?”

“A domestic disturbance is the reason they gave me.”

“Can you describe them for me?”

“Sure, one was about 6 ft, about 165, skin tone was pale, sickly looking. His hair color was brown, with a thin mustache. The other was 5’3, 260 if he was a pound, brown hair, dark skin. He had no beard or mustache. They drove a beat up Chevy Nova.”

“Okay, sir. If they come back, call us immediately. We will keep an eye out for them.”

“Thank you.”

I walk back into my house and pull out my dad’s shotgun. I eject the birdshot and reload the weapon with buckshot. Satisfied that the weapon’s lethality is up to par, I check my handguns. “If those boys come back, I’m going down fighting.”

My Queen Anne chair sits next to the corner, so I drag it out. I changed out of my pajamas and checked my bug out bag. Then, I plop down into my chair and wait. Hours pass but finally, I hear the rumble of the Nova. I glance at my watch, 0418.

I creep to the shotgun and move to the corner away from the door. Heavy footsteps mark their position on my porch. The doorknob is tried, it’s locked. In the silence, I hear a lockpick being inserted, I use the noise to conceal my switching the shotgun from safe to fire.

Two shadows creep into my dimly lit house, and I wait until they’re standing in front of my television before I introduce myself.

“You take the bedroom on the left, I’ll take the right.” 

I don’t give them time to switch on the lights much less search my house. From the darkness, I pull the trigger. The buckshot rips through the night and shreds everything in front of it. Wordlessly, both shadows fall to the floor. I move to the front and sweep the area. It’s the same knuckleheads from earlier. Both are still greasy looking, the only difference is the shredded flesh ripped apart by the buckshot.

I am partially deafened from the blast, but finally I pull out my phone. Dialing 911, I wait for the operator to pick up.

“911, what is the nature of your emergency?”

“Hi, my home was invaded. Two greasy men, who posed as police, are dead in my living room. Could you send a meat wagon to my address?”

“Yes, sir. I have dispatched police and an ambulance.”

“Thanks.”

In the distance, the flash of lights and the noise of sirens fill the air. I lean back in my rocking chair and wait. The ambulance is the first to arrive, followed soon by two police cruisers. The paramedics ask me to show them the bodies, I lead them to the living room. 

“Jeez, man. You did a number on these boys.”

“No, man. It wasn’t me. It was the buckshot.”

They start loading them on stretchers, and I walk out on the porch. 

“Excuse me, sir. Could you fill me in on the details of what happened here this morning?” I turn and see an officer sitting on the bench outside my house.

“Who are you?”

“Detective Rosie Hernandez. You’re the one who called 911?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I lean back into my rocker and recount the story, making sure not to leave out any of the detail. Rosie nods her head and scratches some notes in her ledger. 

“Do you know what they wanted?”

“No ma’am.”

“Did you identify yourself to them prior to pulling the trigger?”

“No ma’am.”

“You didn’t?”

I look at Detective Hernandez. She peers at me with those icy blue eyes. I take a deep breath and answer her query.

“No, I didn’t identify myself. They broke into my house. I shot them. They’re dead, and I’m alive. End of story.”

“Okay, we will be in touch.”

The medics are removing the bodies from my house when I go to walk in. As one of the bodies is being wheeled by me, I catch a glance at his badge and I’m filled with dread.

“Why in the world would the federal government break into my house?”

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