“Colt 45” by Holly Sheidenberger
I am buying a coffee for my morning commute. He is buying a 40-ounce Colt 45 malt liquor. It’s 7:15 a.m.
Shattering the monotony, he whips out a gun and points it at the cashier. Everyone in the gas station screams.
I hate pansies who cower in front of guns on TV. So, I man up and grab the muzzle and twist it out of his hand.
It’s a .45 Colt. Ironic.
The guy drops his liquor in surprise. It explodes all over the floor.
He lunges for the gun, slips on the wet tile floor, and cracks his head on the ground. Blood seeps out everywhere, mingling with the alcohol.
He gurgles for a minute and then stops. I think he’s dead.
Twenty minutes later I’m at the office. Bob fake smiles, “Good morning. How are you?”
I fake smile back. “Fine, how are you?” and head to my cubicle to start my day.