The Writer Briefly Serves as a Target

I turned on my heel, and made my way back to the couch again.

Imagine my shock and horror when I actually saw Mr. Tough Guy’s face streaked with tears.

That must have a heck of a nightmare, but I didn’t have time to contemplate it, because my foot slipped on the carpet and I backed up into the bureau.

The next few moments were in a blur – like fast forward.

At first, I was spinning downwards, and then I was pinned up against my own wall, nearly being lifted up. I caught a glimpse of Scooter.

His hackles were raised, and he was hissing on a high frequency I couldn’t, or wouldn’t hear.

I was bleakly aware of not being able to breathe, and I blinked in an attempt to steady my vision.

“You were asleep!” I managed to croak out, and the person that was promptly fixing me to the wall as a decoration by my throat looked surprised.


“No, Jabba the Hutt. Who’d you think it was?” I coughed, wriggling like a worm on a hook.

The hand slipped away, and I sank to the floor.

View this story's 4 comments.