Royal Farms Holdup

The veterinarian is walking toward Royal Farms, the house is out of toilet paper. He always means to buy more, but forgets until his roommate does first so now

He's walking into the store, thinking about whether he'll go for extra ply (probably just the value pack, the best deal, he'll work it out) when he feels a jab into his upper back, smells panic like a breeze that just rushed in, hears from behind him the muffled yet loud “Hands Up! And sir, if you will please, continue walking right towards that register in front of you.”

Hands up, the veterinarian approaches the cashier. Starting to sweat, not losing his cool. He did two surgeries today, he's thought about life and death, good and evil, a great deal. But was not expecting this. And for a second, he thinks about all the options with his eyes calculating down the row of items as he walks step by step the few feet towards the register (it's only a few seconds). He sees a line of umbrellas, but the metal they're made from is probably too weak, and hairspray, but uncapping or shaking could hold that up too, but then

And the vet was a pacifist, every day saving dogs, cats, parakeets, horses, fish, you name it – but always a price tag at the end, always a bottom line, and sometimes in that operating room with the lights and the animal, not like a person, the animal always afraid and you could never reassure it, a cat, that everything would be OK, that you're the good guy. Even when it's over and the tumor is gone, the cat hisses. The cat knows that something in the balance of things, of life and death and good and bad, just got thrown off.

But then he sees the broken rack just under the register, Hershey's bars sliding downwards and before he debates (it's only been seconds) he reaches down, yanks it off and continues the motion thrusting backwards as he dodges left, impaling his assailant in the abdomen. He can only see the cashier staring behind him and hear the attacker's quiet grunt – soft like an old man, he thinks, a note of helplessness. The the thud, body hitting floor and now the footsteps, noise as the few other customers run out of the room and the cashier is already on the phone and he must be imagining it, the sirens he thinks he hears in the distance, though this is Baltimore.

The man behind him is making gasping sounds and now the vet turns. His ski mask is pulled away and he's not so old, probably about the same age as the vet, he thinks. And he looks a moment into the man's eyes, recognizes a pain universal. Automatically, the vet makes motions (he can't feel his own hands). Grabs bandannas off the rack, pulls out the bent metal swiftly, stabilizes – the wound is narrow and deadly as from a small shank. The sirens outside, he now knows, are real.

On the floor the man struggles at the sound,twists violently to the side and the vet holds one hand pressing the makeshift compression bandage into the man's abdomen, grabs the broken piece of metal with the other and insists loud, firm, but not quite yelling, “I'll put this right back in you!” For a moment they catch eyes, are both still except for hard breathing, one shallow and labored, one angry and charged. They can hear where the cruisers must be now, less than five blocks away, and the vet is looking nowhere else and then the man's eyes close a second too long. A whimper and he seems to say something. What, the vet leans forward. He has to get inches from the man's face to hear him. Just kill me between breaths. The vet is still, the man's eyes open and lock on his. I can't go back to prison. Sirens, a block away. I'm sorry, please. Here, take my gun. He's trying to reach for the object, it's less than a foot away from his body; the vet is paralyzed, somehow the man reaches it. They'll never arrest you. Self-defense. About the same age as me, thinks the vet, he'll never make it, he thinks. Then as if all his effort would go into one word, one action (but he cannot lift the gun, only nudge it on the floor. It brushes the vet's knuckles) Please. The man's eyes close. The vet has seen this before. He picks up the gun, the sirens are outside now, he hears voices even, running on the sidewalk. He stands, the man is unconscious, he can feel it, his breath is hardly visible and the vet stands up, with both hands, one steadying the other he aims, square

Now! The man behind the register watches a cop push through the door take in the man standing, gun ready at arms length towards a bloody body. Now! The cop fires. The gun falls from the vet's hand.