In front of me there’s a smashed in door
with a burnt out body inside.
The killer is scuttling around on the loose.
I can hear his feet padding around noisily.
I steal second and steady my breathing, my thoughts
racing into the recesses of my neocortex.
My desire to survive is overpowering.
This demands that I too my must become a killing machine
to escape this deadly encounter.
The hunt is on and I only know three things about
the assailant. He is male, armed
with a shotgun and has only one
shoulder. His slight of frame allows
him to hide in crevices and slide into
passages most men would get stuck in.
He may be a worth adversary only time will tell.
I will likely need my whole combined strength
mental and physical to take him down.
With a last gulp of metallic oxygen I burst through
the blood covered door shouting. I see him in the corner stunned,
everything turns to slow motion. Gun shots rattle
the walls like a child’s play toy. I am hit twice ripped flesh and blood leaking out my leg like spaghetti, but he lays motionless twitching.
As he lays dying it turns out I only knew two things about him.
He actually had two shoulders the myths and rumours were wrong.
Now he just looked like something resembling week old roadkill.
Who said hunting criminals was hard obviously never did,
the only thing tough about it was not turning into one yourself.
