It was a dark and stormy night. The wind showed no sign of halting. Rain smacking against the windows of the small house. Lightning striking, frightening the mice that the scurried along the glistening  hardwood floors. Everything seemed so alert to the rain. The rabbits were hiding in the hollow tree, the owls were tucked in their nest, the squirrels were scurrying to get to their home.  Everyone was safe, all except for Michael. 

Michael was the sole resident of the house, aside from the occasional mouse that  made its home in the insulation of the walls. Michael was a short man, about 5"2, who kept a well shaven beard. He had blue eyes and an average business man haircut. He was not married nor did he have a spouse to share his wealth with. He was alone, no kids , nothing. Michael regularly conned people out of their money, but it was his way of living.  Businessman is what he called it , an entrepreneur, who owned a rather large company that employed and supplied many. It was no wonder someone wanted revenge.

His “business” was the common export and import of drugs and sometimes cars.The workers worked all across the state in chop shops or on illegal trade ships. His workers didn't get paid in money but rather in protection and housing. This meant most of his workers came directly off the streets. The drugs, marijuana, cocaine, meth anything you could think of didn’t sell as much as an exotic car that recently came in. It was a 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO, one of the most expensive cars to make today. Michael was in a tough situation. Whether to sell the car or have it sent to a chop shop and have it broken down and have the parts sold. Although this was very illegal, he kept  law enforcement from finding this “business” by bribing or killing whoever found out. Many other rivals who heard about the special import wanted their grimy hands on it.

In the living room of the small house laid the weapon, a cold metal pistol, laying in a pool of blood beside Michael. Michael was leaning against the fireplace, wondering what had just occurred. The tables were toppled on the floor, the chairs with bullet holes in them, were flipped on their sides as if used as shields, and the lamps were all shattered from previous gunfire. The murderer had fled, leaving Michael approaching death in his crime ridden living room.

Michael grabbed the pistol and cleaned it with a dingy rag. Though there was no cleaning the tainted memory of the weapon, it eased his mind a bit.

As he finished cleaning the gun beside him, he took his final breath, his mind at ease knowing life is precious but his was cut short.

As his final seconds of life approached an end, all he could do was frown upon his life...