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The thief was taken completely by surprise when she turned around in his arms.She didn't miss this time.She slammed her hand up against the gun, pushing it straight up into the air just as he pulled the trigger. She grinned to herself as the bullet made a nice hole in the ceiling. 'Much better that getting kinda shot in the head, ' she thought. Then she pretty much made him a eunuch with her right foot, broke his nose with her right hand, and kicked him so hard in the chest that he slammed into the shelves, making a big mess as everything flew everywhere.It just wasn't Amy's day.She forgot about the gun; he raised it and pointed it at her.Child's play; she could disarm him with one hand tied behind her back. She started to do so when she heard the gun fire behind her and a red flower of blood sprouted in the middle of his forehead. As he collapsed to the ground, Amy turned in time to see Christopher slip to the side, twist, and shoot the other robber right between the eyes as he. The man took a sip before spitting it out on the bar. “I’m not drinking this!” he complained. “This is cheap three-year-old scotch. Now give me the good twelve-year-old scotch that I asked for!”Still looking to cut corners, the bartender poured him a shot of a moderate six-year-old scotch.The man took a sip before once again spitting it out on the bar. “This is just a six-year-old scotch,” he moaned. “I’m not paying for this! Now will you give me the twelve-year-old scotch I ordered?”The bartender finally relented, and served the man his best quality twelve-year-old scotch.The entire episode had been witnessed by an old drunk at the other end of the bar. He now walked up to the selective scotch drinker, put a glass down in front of him and asked: “What do you think of this?”The scotch expert took a sip of the golden liquid and spat it out violently on the bar. “That’s disgusting!” he said. “It tastes like piss!”“It is,” replied the old drunk. “Now tell me how old I am.A man walked.
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Now. Stop it!’ another smack across his bottom. He screams louder and she hits him again. Enraged, he turns and launches himself at her, small plump fists clenched. He pummels her thighs, hands curling into claws. His nails dig into her skin, viciously, ripping at her dress. She struggles to pick him up. He kicks her. She holds him, swearing, sweating. Movement – the walls pass him by. A door opens – it is suddenly dark. He stops kicking and she puts him down. ‘Stay here,’ she is saying. ‘You’re going to bed now.’ She leaves. A door closes. There is darkness. * * * She shuts the door and leans against it, breathing heavily. The telltale gleam of salty wetness trail down her cheeks – tears of frustration and rage, glittering and bathing the angry red lines where he has scratched her, in stinging salt. A car pulls into the driveway, engine purring like an overfed cat. Michael. Her darling boy. She walks quickly into the bathroom. Running water. She washes her face and pastes on a.

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