Wild Fucking Machines
fucking machine
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.
