“There has to be a gun around here somewhere,” Terry thought aloud. He had rifled through the dresser, finding ammunition for a .357 Magnum, but a thorough examination of his closet hadn’t netted him anything. “If I were a firearm where would I be?”

He surveyed the ceiling, locating an attic and climbed the pulldown staircase. His jaw hit the floor. It was an arsenal, every weapon imaginable at his finger tips.

He dropped the .357 ammunition. Armed himself with twin uzis. Strapped on kevlar. Laced up steel-toe boots. Loaded himself with grenades, knives and a lockpick. Selected the requisite Ray Ban sunglasses.

He returned to the bedroom, feeling like a real badass. He was ready for battle. That’s when he flashed.

A television.
His wedding: Laura.
The exterior of a house.
The birth of Alexis.

Memory cloudy, but one thing was certain. This isn’t my house. The cops are using me.

Terry picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Twiggy Banks, please.”

Those pigs will never see it coming.