Criminals
Reaching for a pot fit for cooking a large meal of spicy spaghetti, and a pan fit for a monster-sized omelet, you begin to bang the two kitchen items together with fevered tenacity. A wonderful menagerie of clangs erupts from the kitchen sure to wake the soundest sleeper.
From the swinging door leading into the kitchen, you look up toward what must be the master bedroom. Although you can't hear a sound for all the noise, you can see a light turn on from the small crack running along the bottom of the closed bedroom door.
Tossing the pan back onto the counter, you hold the pot in your left hand and pull a butcher knife from the knife rack with your right hand. Now hiding in the awkward silence of the kitchen behind the door, you wait for someone to come and investigate.
As the dog outside begins to howl, you hear the footsteps of someone coming down the stairway a few steps at a time. You think that the dog must have finished his dog treats and is now regretting not chewing on your leg instead.
You can't help but snicker under your breath slightly as the doorway to the kitchen begins to swing open. Only a fool would come investigate; they should have called the police!
Not realizing that you are standing just behind the door, a tall dark haired woman of middle years steps into the kitchen holding a revolver in her left hand. She wears pajamas with little cowboys swinging lassos from the backs of cartoonish horses printed all over the fabric.
You scream, "Well high-oh silver!"
With a surprisingly quick turn, she levels the pistol at your midsection. It gleams menacingly in the dark, and for a moment you sure it is going to spit fire and bullets.
Fortunately, you are faster. With your right hand darts like lightening and brings the butcher knife in contact with her arm holding the gun. You sneer at the impressive gash you create that lays her arm open like an open-faced sandwich.
With your other arm, you swing the oversized pot over her head and bring it down hard. You hear an impressive "bonk!" as the top of her head hits the bottom of the inside of the pot.
In another moment, she lies knocked out on the floor of the kitchen arm bleeding profusely and a pot rolling slightly back and forth near her head. You yell, "Now that is a spicy meatball!"
Should you:
From the swinging door leading into the kitchen, you look up toward what must be the master bedroom. Although you can't hear a sound for all the noise, you can see a light turn on from the small crack running along the bottom of the closed bedroom door.
Tossing the pan back onto the counter, you hold the pot in your left hand and pull a butcher knife from the knife rack with your right hand. Now hiding in the awkward silence of the kitchen behind the door, you wait for someone to come and investigate.
As the dog outside begins to howl, you hear the footsteps of someone coming down the stairway a few steps at a time. You think that the dog must have finished his dog treats and is now regretting not chewing on your leg instead.
You can't help but snicker under your breath slightly as the doorway to the kitchen begins to swing open. Only a fool would come investigate; they should have called the police!
Not realizing that you are standing just behind the door, a tall dark haired woman of middle years steps into the kitchen holding a revolver in her left hand. She wears pajamas with little cowboys swinging lassos from the backs of cartoonish horses printed all over the fabric.
You scream, "Well high-oh silver!"
With a surprisingly quick turn, she levels the pistol at your midsection. It gleams menacingly in the dark, and for a moment you sure it is going to spit fire and bullets.
Fortunately, you are faster. With your right hand darts like lightening and brings the butcher knife in contact with her arm holding the gun. You sneer at the impressive gash you create that lays her arm open like an open-faced sandwich.
With your other arm, you swing the oversized pot over her head and bring it down hard. You hear an impressive "bonk!" as the top of her head hits the bottom of the inside of the pot.
In another moment, she lies knocked out on the floor of the kitchen arm bleeding profusely and a pot rolling slightly back and forth near her head. You yell, "Now that is a spicy meatball!"
Should you: