This Number Has Been Disconnected...

There's a reason some calls don't get answered

(300 words)

Well, it went like this.

The drug store was small, easy; but I made sure it was no little old lady or little old man running it. I just needed money, not a murder rap. The night I went in, an affable Mexican immigrant named Mando was working. He normally only worked days, so I was surprised. Mando was surprised, too, and immediately suspicious. Maybe it was my long overcoat and ski mask.

I tried to make my voice gruff and intimidating. "Don’t mess around, boy, you'll get hurt. Just empty the register."

"Kevin, what the hell you doin', man?!" How he recognized me, I still don't know. (We weren't really friendly after that, so I never got to ask.)

I was startled, and I fumbled the gun. The little .38 hit the floor and exploded like a cannon in the confined space. I looked at Mando. Mando looked at me, through a shocked expression.

"I gotta call 911, man," he said in a thin voice.

I dropped my pretense of a bad guy. "Mando, are you okay? Are you—" I took a step toward him and crumpled in pain. Mando was fine; I was the one who was hit.

I felt the blood on the inside of my thigh. Despite Mando's words, I instinctively reached into my pocket for my mobile. There was nothing but shards, cutting into my fingertips. The bullet had obliterated my handy little Samsung, deflecting a little bit. The doctors told me it was the only thing that saved my life, or at least my...well, my bits and bobs.

So, kids, now you know why all my letters are stamped with [INMATE MAIL]. And you know one other thing, too:

That's not how I met your mother; but it is how I lost my phone!