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“You sure know how to get yourselves killed,” I stated. “Mind telling me who
was in the car? You don’t want to take the rap all by yourselves.”
“Please don’t shoot! That was Mike, it was all his idea! He made us do it! He
said he would put us out and make us walk home if we didn’t do it! Are you
going to call the sheriff?”
Now I could understand why the girls tried to burglarize my home. It was a
fifteen mile walk home in pitch darkness on a moonless night for the two
frightened girls. It was just what a worthless shit like Mike would pull.
Knowing what I did about Sonya’s boyfriend, I knew what he probably needed the
money for. He was nineteen, and the only job he had ever had was selling drugs,
and I don’t mean at the pharmacy. He was a charmer though. Girls fell for his
good looks and his charm, and would do anything for him, and he of course chose
the best looking one of the bunch, Sonya. She never realized what a slimeball
he really was. The problem was that Sonya didn’t have a father to threaten to
put a bullet in Mike’s behind, and her mother was just as deceived as she was.
“You broke into my house and attempted to steal my belongings. Why shouldn’t
I?”, I said with false sternness. I wouldn’t really turn them in, now that I
knew the situation. I would give the girls a good scare, then a ride home.
Maybe then Sonya would see through Mike’s veneer.
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I heard faint noises downstairs, and I decided to investigate. I pulled on a
pair of cut-off jeans and grabbed the old pump shotgun that had served me so
well in Viet-Nam from under my bed and crept downstairs to check. My Ranger
training came into play, and I moved soundlessly, down the stairs and into the
living room. A pair of vague shadowy figures figures were searching through the
cabinet that housed my collection of antique silver. I announced my presence in
a sudden and intimidating manner. I merely pumped the action of the shotgun,
then moved to the right immediately, so if anyone shot, they would shoot where
I had been, not where I was now. That sound was a language that everyone
understood, including the two figures before me. They froze, and were still
motionless.
“Mr. Young?”, one of the figures quavered. “Please don’t shoot!”
I recognized the voice as belonging to Sonya, the 18 year old daughter of my
nearest neighbor. I didn’t know who the other person was or who else may be in
the house, so I kept the shotgun pointed in their direction and hit the light
switch with my free hand. Immediately a car cranked up in my driveway, and
tires squealing, raced out to the road and away. I looked at my midnight
visitors. I recognized Sonya and Karen, who was a close friend of Sonya’s and a
frequent overnight visitor of hers. They were holding between them a laundry
bag containing most of my silver collection. I lowered the muzzle of the cut
down shotgun.
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