It was supposed to be simple. Steve thought to himself. As he crouched beside the lifeless body of Jameson Elm. Jameson had once been the proud proprietor of Jameson Liquor Store. Now the idiotic old bastard was nothing more was a Gory bag of Human Mulch. Wrapped in a shredded and blood-soaked T-shirt.
Stop off by the Liquor Store on your way home from work. Steve's Wife Gracie had texted. It had been around Closing time. When Steve received the text. Otherwise, he might be home right now with his feet up. Wondering aloud to His Wife. The Universal question that plagues every household worldwide. What's for supper? Instead, Steve was crouched down behind a Liquor store shelf. Praying the person at the front of the store wouldn't decide to stretch their legs and saunter over to the back of the store.
Pick us up a couple of bottles of Enlightenment and I'll buy us some Steaks from that place you like. The text from his wife had actually read.
Steve's mouth had practically been salivating the entirety of the drive home. Shillings was his favorite place to eat in the whole world. Had been ever sense he was a kid. Steve could still remember when Old Kurt himself had been running the joint. Standing behind that old giant wooden counter. chewing on one of those big cigars. Now Kurt's Sons were in Charge of Shillings.
Man, Steve thought. What I wouldn’t give to be home right now, sitting on the couch next to Gracie. Speaking of Gracie. His wife was probably, already back to the house by now. Wearing those monogram silken Red Pajamas. That Steve had gotten her for Christmas. Two years ago. Steve could just envision, Gracie, eating all the fries out of his takeout container in revenge for Steve taking his sweet ass time getting home. Wondering what the hell was taking that long-winded, windbag of a husband of hers so damn long. She was probably placing bets with the Arctic their three-year-old overactive Syberian Husky. On who Steve had run into at the Liquor Store and how long he would be talking to them. Ding-ding The bell above the Liquor Store door sounded indicating someone was entering or leaving the Store. Oh God Steve thought. Panic gripping him. If someone's coming in here that means. They don't know. They have no idea. Maybe I can warn them somehow. Give them a chance at least.
Hello, a Woman's voice spoke. Is anyone here? Before Steve could so much as move. The woman had her reply.
KaBoom. Came the rocketing sound of a discharging Pump Action Twelve Guage Shotgun. The bottle on the shelves reverberated in a shimmering chorus. As the sound filled the air itself.
I'd say there's someone here. A soft-spoken voice mockingly stated from somewhere around the front of the store. Rather unfortunate for you wouldn't you say?
There was an insanely long pause of silence. Before the voice continued. Oh, that's right. You're dead! You can't say anything. To anyone, ever.
Steve could hear the distinctive chick-chicking. Sound of a Shotgun feeding a live shell into the firing chamber. Damn Steve thought how many shells does that thing hold. Steve knew most version of pump actions could hold between six to eight shells. However, some people bought upgrades and refitted their firearms. Especially for hunting in Bear Country. And this was Grizzly territory. So this person's Shotgun could easily contain sixteen or more active shells. There was no reason to assume anything with this maniac.
I can count! The soft-spoken Voice said menacingly from the front of the store. So why don't you save me the trouble and come on out from behind there?
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