Russian Roulette

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Eddie Miller was just a poor working stiff. He’d tell you so himself if you asked him. Lord knows he wasn’t looking for any trouble. He never was. But trouble was about to find him. And as usual, it would find him when his hands were full.

Eddie lumbered out into the Safeway parking lot carrying a half dozen plastic bags, three dangling from the fingers of each hand. He could only imagine how silly he looked in his work pants, work boots, and flannel shirt, the bald front half of his head reflecting the afternoon sun like a polished pink bowling ball, and the blue plastic pods growing down out of his fingers. How could anyone look at him and see a threat?

And yet, a good ten yards from his aging red Camaro, he saw three men stalking toward him as if he were the devil himself. He recognized these men. They were dressed like he was, but just like most of the guys on the construction site, they were all wider than he was. And their hands were empty.

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