911 2nd Ave., Old Town USA

What happened was they got cocky. When things are too easy, arrogance ensues.

There was no sneaking anymore. No hurrying. They simply knocked and waited, like Trick-or-Treat.

They knocked on doors, was all. And somehow an opening always came, even in this “Paranoia Age” of security cameras and Ring doorbells.

When the door opened they entered. That was it. Any little opening allowed the pair to push their ways in, where they nearly always found themselves incensed at the fear and submission exuded by the pantywaists they encountered inside. Imagine someone so craven they would not fight for their own lives? So it was that what went on once they were inside was always ugly, because this pair went in so hard and mean. Those who pleaded with the twins for mercy only made their horrors last longer.

It is what happens to bullies when there is no fear; no fear of retaliation, no fear of incarceration, no fear of repudiation. With no fear at all left in them they came in strong, as sons of bitches will, until this one time when their previously successful modus operandi proved a colossal miscalculation.

They came into this house bold and hard, just as they had always done, punching, kicking, and biting.

Yet coming in hard and blind creates it’s own risks, doesn’t it? Attacking with purely aggressive tactics can be it’s own trap. Assuming success might lead to trouble, mightn’t it? It certainly has in the past, so let’s not pretend that we don’t know what assuming does.

Three quick shots was all, followed a good minute later by a fourth, “POW, POW, POW…

POW!” This was not at an occasion of sprayed bullets and wasted ammo. Each shot went just where it was intended to go. The ballsy, but unfortunate pair had happened upon that atypical homeowner who ain’t scared of shit. The cops, when they finally showed, called it a clear case of criminal trespass. This pair were notorious, deleterious, nefarious after all. Robbery, rape and murder had followed the progression of their lives.

Comically, the homeowner was wearing a too small pair of tidy-whities when they arrived and nothing else, his naked beer-belly sagging grotesquely over the underwear’s waistband. Our hero sipped a Coors Light, his bath-robed wife nibbled on microwave popcorn (she always ate when she was nervous, she told them) as he acted out with a running narrative for them telling exactly what had happened. The cops could hardly maintain their professionalism as they interviewed this unlikely shooter. Wasting no time they wrote up their report, shook his hand, and headed back to the station to tell the boys about the final minutes of the pair the precinct had dubbed, “The Bopsy Twins.“ And why not? Two were gone that would not end up back on the streets to be dealt with later.

They only wished more of the city’s S.O.B.s would try that crazy old dude‘s house.