The Collected Works of Alex Finkelstein and Clifton Boyd

I pulled my key out of my blue jeans, stuck them in the hole, and opened the old, rickety door.  Tired of doing lots of work at school, I kicked off my K-Swiss into the shoe pile, too lazy to take the time to untie them.  Ready to watch an overly dramatic soap opera (which was the only channel I got on my TV, with an almost broken antenna from the 1980’s), I worked my way carefully through the unfinished kitchen so I wouldn’t step on crooked nails left by the dirt-cheap company we hired for the job.  It ended up being a horrible decision, which we should have known because their advertising was a piece of blank paper taped to the wall with writing on it.  Anyway, next thing I knew I was looking at three guys in my den with guns, looking through my family’s stuff searching for something valuable.
They wore black shirts, pants, and masks; except one.  One wore some flooding blue jeans, an extremely corny shirt with Albert Einstein on it, and some superhero shoes with light-up action.  In short, he was some teenage geek in high school.  He normally wouldn’t be much of a threat, but he had two had guns, one in each hand.  “Who are you?!” the geek screamed at me, automatically pointing the gun in his sweating right hand at my head.  I felt like a deer in headlights, with my wide brown eyes and my heart missing beat, after beat, after beat.
Then, suddenly, he pulled the wet, cold trigger and a small bullet pierced my skin and heart as I feel to the ground in unbearable pain.
The next thing I knew I was in a hospital bed in Beaumont with so many tubes in my body I laid there in shock for about five minutes.  What was I thinking, I thought, I am such an idiot.  I made a small pause.  But at least I’m alive.  My situation could have been a lot worse than what I was, so I thanked God for his blessing as I laid on the bed with the red hole in my chest.