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  • When The Police Come...



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  • This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...

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        Wednesday, June 18, 2008

    When The Police Come...

    He hears a fist pounding on his front door. Then the thumping of his kid's feet pounding up the stairs, as they'd been trained. He pointed to the room he wanted them to hide in, then made the 'fish swimming' signal with all of the fingers of that hand that told them to go hide in their secret place. They disappeared to their safety spot.

    He already knew, but he hollered from upstairs "Who is it?!"

    "POLICE...OPEN UP!"

    He was surprised they hadn't already bashed the door open. He turned and went and snatched up his .45, dropped two clips of hardball into one pocket of his pajama shorts, grabbed his 10mm, and dropped two clips into the other pocket, and headed downstairs to the door.

    A quick glance showed no police present in the back yard...there was another hard pound on his front door, and he yelled "Hold your horses! I hadda put some pants on!" and he tucked the .45 in his right hand under his left armpit, and pretended to fumble with the locks. He unlocked the knob first, and gently tried to turn it. It resisted. Someone on the other side had their hand on it, and would door-jam him as soon as they heard the bolt from the top lock shoot back into the door.

    'Okay, baby, here we go' he said to himself, and took the .45 from his armpit, then placed the 10mm up against the door, and emptied the gun in a fan pattern out through the door, dropped the mag, reloaded, snapped open the lock, and stepped out.

    The cop who had had his hand on the doorknob was flat on his back, a 10mm round having hit him square in the vest. Draped over the front stoop, his throat was exposed, so he put a .45 Glaser into the soft part, just behind his chin, and the cop's face mask turned instant red, and his combat booted heels began to drum on the porch.

    A big automatic in each hand, the man began to walk his yard, and kill. Cops kneeling and firing...he shot them in the upper thigh, ran forward, kicked them in the front of their face mask, and shot their throats or brains out, depending on the angle. Then he'd drop behind their bodies, and fire from side, prone. You don't want to rest your firing arm on a recently dead person, they tend to be...twitchy. Throws your aim off.

    He shot his guns dry, and had no more ammo, so he began to loot bodies. Ugh...Sigs. Oh well, we work with what we have...he felt really bad when he ran behind his house and shot a cop through his face-mask, and the guy landed in his wife's garden. And thrashed around a bit.

    He looted more mags, then stood up, and saw a couple of cops coming through his front door, so he made them stop. And even if they lived, they'd be crippled for life.

    Eventually, the firing died down, and stopped. Quiet descended, but he couldn't hear it. His ears were ringing too loud. "Well, I think I'll go check on the kids" he thought.

    He moved tactically back around the house, and as he got to the door, a sniper's bullet hit him square in the back of his skull.

    The last thought that he ever thought on this earth, as he watched his own brains spatter in a Rorschach Blot on the wall just inside the foyer was...

    "Look...a butterfly!"