Target Practice

The clowns were back on the porch, and Grandma was livid.

“Dirty creatures,” she said, chambering a 45 mm round into her ancient 1911.

“Where are they coming from?” I asked with a whimper- I knew where they came from, but I couldn’t say it. Not out loud.

“Hell, son.” She racked the slide twice and sent a round into the air where it spun a half dozen times, light glinted off the shell as is rotated, and then fell to floor and rolled under Grandpa’s rocking chair. She set her wrists on the sill of the window and took careful aim. “They have to learn to stay where I put ’em. They bring others when they get out. What do I always say?”

“We don’t abide the clowns,” I said as I jammed my index fingers into my ears.

“Goddamn right. Your a good boy.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say.

Grandma sucked in a short, sharp breath, sniffed snot back into her nose, then pulled the trigger.

“One down!” she hooted, “thirty-six more to go. Be a good boy and get me two more mags, son.”

I did as I was told.

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