A famous detective mystery writer said that when you are blocked, have a man walk in the door with a gun. I'm using his idea in a different way, as the start to a story or three.
The Case of the Wrong Business
Running my hands down the densely ornamented contract yet again, I paused on the name of Richard Milligan, from whom I bought my wooden crate filled storefront, and Paul Sanchez, my own name. Drawing strength from that, I reached for another square foot cube which held straw and tiny china teacups. Opening it with my tiny crowbar, a delicate device suited for a shoppe devoted to ceramic knick-knacks, kitschy glassware advertisements from earlier decades, and antique china, I looked up in surpise across the forrest of yellow pine wood crates.
A man walked in the door with a gun in his hand.
"Richard." He said venomously to me, his face contorted by hatred.
"I'm not..." I began, and he raised the pistol, and fired, blowing a crate of ceramic monkeys into meat shards for the ceramic tigers in the crate below them in the seven foot high stack. Desperate, I shoved the largest stack near me toward the gunman, and it toppled, and the next two toward the man swayed and went over as well. I heard a grunt of surprise, and then a gasp.
But I heard this from over my shoulder as I bolted toward the back door.
"You can't escape..." The warning's delivery was cut off as the door slammed behind me. First I would go to the airport, to find Richard, and to shake out of him what was going on. Later, the police would be consulted.
=================
The man frowned as he studied his portfolio in his home office. The first floor of his house stretched out around him, empty and clean, with large pieces of furniture dotting the even larger log cabin rooms. If only the Pimp and the Honest Pol had not messed over Freddie and Fannie, despite the objections of the Namby-Pamby Terrorism Obsessed President, or the flailing efforts of the current Teh One, who managed to be the most idealistic and least effective since Woodrow Wilson had paved the way for World War II. If only, then he would have twice as much to give too his grandchildren, and more than enough to hire several new employees.
A man walks in to the open plan office with a gun in his hand. He stops in front of the desk, and sneers.
"You didn't think to see us again did you, old man?"
"Wrong again." The homeowner said, and pressed a red button on the front edge of his desk. An electri pulse went down to four ignitor caps emplaced in the desk, and four large-barrel shotguns fired off. Each had been laid paralell to each other. The four shotgun blasts tore off the front facade of the desk, and shredded the trespasser.
Even as the intuder lay dying the old man cast his mind back thirty years to where it all began. He had been young, and ambitious.
