George Blake heard the carpool minivan's horn honking. Holding the briefcase across his posterior with one hand, he fumbled with the other to keep his trousers from falling to his knees. He now realized that he had been locked out of his house by his wife. What the hell did he ever do to deserve this? George panicked and felt his chest tighten. He had difficulty breathing. George started to mumble obscenities at Dolores under his breath.
Open the goshdarn door. He noticed something wet dripping from his right ear. A large red spot hit square in the middle of his florsheim. Could that be blood?
The Chevy's driver continued honking scornfully, probably waking up every person in the neighborhood. Aw Jeez. Is this the big one? George started to hyperventilate, more blood dripping out of his nose now. And what was that odd whirring, noise, like a cake mixer? He felt strangely detached and lightheaded. He needed to get back in to his house for help but his frigging wife Dolores would not let him in. Was that even more blood dripping from his crotch? George was confused, was he hallucinating or could this be real? He had the sense that he was in a bad foreign movie and that all of this was happening to somebody else. A shadow momentarily descended over the stuccoed house. George looked up and espied a dull gray helicopter high in the sky.
The driver of his carpool had had enough and would not wait any longer. He screeched out of the driveway without George. A confused and disoriented George Blake could clearly see a couple of his carpool buddies snickering at him as the Chevy pulled away. He might have imagined it but he was pretty sure that he saw a few neighbors peering through the blinds as well. Mr. Blake sunk to his knees in despair. The remnants of a slug were now smashed against his left knee, along with several blades of the fat St. Augustine grass.
The door opened a fraction of an inch and George clearly thought he could see two figures in the dark silhouette behind the screen. Now who the hell can that be?