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Packing Heat - Shit Happens

Like a pissed off bear, the ebony mountain of a man prowled back and forth at the front of the store, dreadlocks swinging past his shoulders. His eyes were as bloodshot red as the devil snarling from the front of his yellow muscle shirt. Sleeves of dragon tattoos covered his arms.

In the jittery clasp of his hands was a gun.

“I said everyone on the floor!” he roared, swinging the weapon to Christopher, who was obliviously crashing toy trucks together. “Wallets out! Throw them to me!”

Gail wormed closer to her two-year old son. Had it only been minutes ago that she’d been admiring her ass in those spiffy purple acid-wash jeans while Christopher played on the floor outside the dressing room? The sales clerk’s scream had alerted her just as the robber ordered the dozen customers to lie on the floor.

A heaving mass of boobs and butt, the sales clerk lay next to Gail now, sobbing and begging God for mercy. Gail’s hand closed over Christopher’s arm just as the robber directed his ire at the sales clerk.

“You see God in here?” he demanded. “I’m in charge. Shut up!”

Gail pulled at Christopher’s arm. “Come here, baby,” she whispered.

“Me play!” Christopher protested.

“You want me to shoot him?” the man growled, lurching back in Gail’s direction. Sweat beaded his brow and upper lip.

Desperate, Gail yanked Christopher down. The child toppled, his chin colliding with the wheels of his trucks. His body tensed to wail. She hugged him, hoping to muffle the sound. She felt her son’s gush of breath and tears and then there was a sound like a ketchup bottle expelling its last dregs.

Oh God, the smell of fresh diarrhea made her stomach turn.

“He put a curse on the child!” the sales clerk moaned, wrinkling her nose and rolling away, colliding with another prone customer.

We’re dead now, Gail thought. She peeked at the robber. His crazed eyes were transfixed on the brown stain spreading across the seat of Christopher’s shorts. Gail held her whimpering child, squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the gunshot.

“Fuck! He shit himself!” the tattooed thief choked. The gun sailed from his hands as he covered his mouth and nose. “What the hell did you feed that child, lady?”
Kicking the surrendered wallets out of his way, he stumbled from the store, vomiting into an open manhole before he fled.

Gingerly, Gail pushed the gun away from Christopher, then frowned and sniffed at the slick black residue on her fingers. “It’s okay, baby,” she soothed, rubbing Christopher’s back. “You saved Mommy’s life, saved all these nice people.” Shaken customers were rising, rummaging wallets from the abandoned pile and making a beeline for the door. “Good thing I fed him curried chicken for breakfast,” she said to the sales clerk who had put a good distance between herself and Christopher. Then, nerves giving out, Gail sat back on her heels and laughed like a loon. “Never mind the gun was made of soap and a coat of black shoe polish.”


(c) Kristy Kassie, 2017


Packing Heat

We live in an age where guns are everywhere, so why not use a gun in a story plot?

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