Another Friday Fiction prompt. This seems to be the only blogging I’ve done since I got hired by the city three weeks ago. Cheer up, readers. When I get fired I’ll have more time to waste at the library.
Tom prodded the old man with his toe, careful not to get any of the blood onto his new Timberlands. The shotgun was new, too, a Mossberg the salesman said was ideal for home defense.
Until the old man groaned, Tom didn’t know if he was alive or dead. That much blood could mean anything.
The old man’s eyes flew open like one of those cartoon window shades, widened even more when he saw the Mossberg pointing at his face.
“Where am I?” His voice was like gravel in a can.
“You are on my property. You can’t sleep here.”