...down here for some business, and some pleasure. I like to combine both."
Feeling a familiar buzz, I paused the DVD and reached for my phone. "Que quires?" I demanded, as if to transmit my rage through the line to the caller. I don't like having my shows interrupted, especially for calls that were usually nothing. I held the phone to my ear, but I probably should've been more polite when snapping at the other end of the line. "What is it?"
"An assassin is coming to your house right now. You have five minutes left to live, good luck."
Click. I stared blankly, dropping into a faux British accent, "Are you one of those loonies?"
I unpaused the DVD, and continued watching until I heard some scraping outside of my door. Two thumps sounded, then a large crack as the door frame gave way completely. Wood splintered all over the entryway as a tall man wearing an expensive coat walked in. He even had a freakin' earpiece. I jumped up, failing to pause the DVD as I reached for my glass of milk.
"Nice coat," I told him, "which governmental office assigned those to you?"
He glared at me, unamused, and held up a small handgun. I dove to the side, barely finding cover under the arm of the couch. Good God, stone tile hurts even more than ceramic. "Oh, nice gun. Is that a Colt? H&K? Actually, you're Fed, so I'm betting Beretta."
He fired two rounds, one of which bit into the ground two feet ahead of me and exploded into a pile of shrapnel, and the other thunked into the armrest of the loveseat behind me.
"Not into foreplay?"
He said nothing. "Damn it, dude. At least have the decency to banter when I'm about to meet my hands at an anonymous death. Laugh at me, humor me, tell me how much they're paying you... Something."
There was another whumping sound, and heard the whistle as the bullet ripped through the armrest and shoot by my head. "God damn it, dude. Say something!" I'm not too sure why this was pissing me off so much.
I jumped from hiding spot, throwing the milk hard at his face. Human nature kicked in, and he tracked the milk with his gun instead of me. It bounced against his face and splattered everywhere, and I rushed him. I'm not street fighter, and I'm sure as hell not a professional. I wrenched his wrist into a lock, throwing myself to his side and jerking his arm. However, I had the grip of a schoolgirl, and he managed to free his arm without losing the gun. Freakin' professionals. I threw a hasty kick around his leg, hooking his foot out from under him and sprinting down the hall toward the dining room.
His knee must've slammed pretty hard into the tile, because it took him a second or two to steady his arm and fire. By that time, I had managed to get into the dining room, out the other arch, and into the garage. It smelled funny, which I quickly discovered was the pool of gas underneath the car. He had severed the gas lines on all three of the cars in the driveway, and parked his car length-wise across the entire driveway just in case. Freakin' professionals.
Okay, one chance. I stumbled into the storage room in my garage and looked around. There was a hilarious amount of hardware in here, only which to use. I eventually decided on the lighter fluid bottle and my little black Zippo next to it. After briefly hosing the doorknob down with fluid, I set it on fire. It wouldn't get super-hot in the time it took him to get to the door, but I'll take what I can get. I looked back around. No machetes, shotguns, or rifles. What kinda house in the south was I in. I did, however, have a hilarious amount of golf clubs and umbrellas.
I opened all of the umbrellas, laying them down in a wall-like barrier, and soaking them in lighter fluid. I then pushed all of the paint cans into stacks behind them, and then built a wall of paint cans. It had been about a minute since I'd knocked him over, and figured I was shy on time. I grabbed the golf clubs, stacking them all on the door and tossing on as much metallic junk as I could. I then set the umbrellas on fire, hid behind the paint cans, and waiting.
Without more than two seconds to spare, I heard him wrench the knob and throw the door open. A huge clatter of golf clubs and metallic knick-knacks came tumbling down, probably playing havoc with his knees and legs. Despite that, he lined up a shot into the umbrellanferno, and emptied his magazine. Six shots clipped into the paint cans, dribbling lime greens and pinks all over the little shop floor. After his magazine was empty, I had precious little time. Grabbing an open toolkit full of nails, I slammed it in his face. Nails shot everywhere all over my garage. I continued to fall into him, and rode him all the way to the polished concrete of my garage.
He had just enough hair to grab, so I curled my fingers in his greasy locks, and picked his head up just enough to slam it into the concrete again. And again. After a few times of that, I continued until I was sure he wasn't going to wake up. In a rush, I ran inside to grab the duct tape, and taped his wrists together. Then careful that they'll stay that way, I did it again with a second roll of masking tape. His legs got the same treatment next.
I went back into the storage room, grabbing a few props, and dragged him by the legs into the middle of the driveway. I then pulled the chair out, sat down, and called the police.
I was pretty shaken up, and it showed in the 911 call. I imagine the recording was going to make the news or a comedy show or something. Either way, I managed to get the police dispatched, and hoped he wouldn't wake up until the police arrived. Turns out he did, and he started struggling immediately. "Whoa, easy easy. Your choice is to lie still or I'll hit you with this broom handle repeatedly in the head. It's solid wood, and you don't have a lot of recoil room before your head is bouncing on unfinished concrete. Nothing personal, just don't want you to get too frisky."
I held up his gun, gripping it around an old work glove. "And I'm imagining you've got fingerprints all over this thing, but I put some thumb and pointer-finger under the slide and on the trigger assembly, just in case. Now, sit still and wait the police out, or I can give you multiple head trauma. Again."
The police weren't long to follow, a beat cop slicing open the tape on his hands and cuffing them instead. I noticed he left the leg tape on, though. He was going through the Miranda, and I couldn't help but chuckle at the "You have the right to remain silent." After answering all of the questions, the police left with the assassin.
I walked inside, and went to go throw up. Then I curled up in bed, sobbing. It's scary to look death in the eye, and I wasn't too man to admit that were it not for luck, I'd be completely dead.
