It was a Friday afternoon and I was just strolling along, heading homeward. I’d been at a funeral that afternoon, a great-uncle of mine had recently deceased and I was duty bound to make an appearance. I had barely known the man, but when your mother says “You will be at the funeral, won’t you” a wise man knows the answer is yes.
The reason I mention the funeral is to explain my clothes. I was wearing a suit. Not my accustomed attire, I assure you. What with one thing and another I just hadn’t bothered to change after the funeral and when I walked to the local shop and back I was still looking like a gentleman.
Right up to the time that those damn brats attacked. I’d just passed a couple of young lads in the street, and by young, I mean about age ten. They were standing under a tree whispering to each other and holding these funny little guns. I assumed they were just playing cops and robbers or something similar.
Now the place I was passing had a nice hedge for their front fence. Quite high and very nicely trimmed. Just as I was reaching the driveway I felt my foot snag on something and something fell over with a clatter.
That had apparently been a crude alarm, and two more young lads popped out of the driveway, also equipped with those funny looking guns. The difference is that they popped out firing and had scored half a dozen hits before they saw that they had the wrong target.
That’s how I made my acquaintance with paint guns. The pellets don’t particularly sting when they hit but they definitely leave a mark. Or in my case, six marks in assorted red, green and yellow. All over my nice suit. I was not what you would call impressed.
The two boys looked at me in startled horror, flung a quick glance at each other and were turning to bolt when I stopped them.
“Don’t even think of running,” I told them, injecting a note of command into my voice.
They both seemed to freeze on the spot. I could hear running feet and knew that the two intended targets were leaving the scene. From the sound of it, laughing hysterically at the same time.
“You live here?” I asked the boys and received a reluctant nod.
“Then why don’t we go in and say hullo to your mother?”
The boys didn’t seem to think that was a really good idea, but then again, they didn’t have much choice in the matter. I shepherded them to the front door and rang the bell.
A pretty young thing answered the door. The term MILF sprang to mind. She really was a honey. She didn’t look a day over twenty five, even though if she was the mother of ten year old boys she had to be several years older than that.
She looked at the paint guns the boys were holding and then at my suit.
“You do realise I’m going to kill the pair of you?” she told the boys.
