Volatile Chemicals

“Don’t touch it!” Primo shouted.

The man pulled his hand away from the .45. “What you want?”

“Fuck you!” said the other man, suddenly reaching for a beer bottle and tossing it at Primo. Primo ducked, aimed his .45, and shot him in the forehead. The back of his head showered brain fragments and blood against a wall, his body tumbling backward on his falling chair.

An instant later, the first man grabbed the .45 and pointed it at Primo. Without thinking, I shot him in the ear. His body flipped sideways onto the floor.

“Aw, shit,” Primo moaned. “This is a fucking mess. Let’s get out of here before the cops come.”

“There’s a cashbox on the table, Primo. Check it out.”





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)