Louisville Slugger

My husband recently won a free box of cereal from a contest on livingthebefore.com. In his excitement, he posted a reply stating, "It'll go great with the new milk I just bought." He chuckled, amused by the "randomness" of his comment. I told him that milk plus cereal wasn't random, and that it would've been more random to say, "It'll go great with the baseball bat I just bought." Of course, this sparked images of Louisville Sluggers in my head; hence the below story:


      Seventy-one-year-old Gordon Hobbs crept to kitchen for a late night snack. His wife, Charlotte, lay fast asleep, and he dared not wake the beast. Bracing the refrigerator with one hand, he slowly opened it with the other, and with the mild sucking sound of a chest wound, electric bliss beckoned him to feed. He rifled through leftovers, grabbing fixings for a turkey sandwich.

      He filled with joy as he piled the sandwich skyward, layer after layer. With Charlotte's constant nagging, his midnight noshing had quickly become one of the few times he truly felt free. After silently replacing the bread, lettuce, tomato and assorted condiment jars, he returned to his prize. He stood facing the counter, poised to take his first bite. But before teeth sunk into the sandwich, the cold click of a cocked pistol tore him from his revelry.

      "Don't move," came a husky voice from behind Gordon.

      Instinctively, Gordon partially turned, and the butt of a pistol bit into his skull. He slunk to the kitchen floor with a thud and a grunt.

      "Shit," said the gunman. He swiftly unpinned his feet from Gordon's body and made his way to the master bedroom, hoping to find jewelry or a fire safe. The bedroom door opened with a protesting squawk as he entered. His eyes darted from left to right, focused on the bed. Nothing but a body-sized lump. 

      Overcome with relief, the assailant let out a breath and wiped his moistened brow. He crept deeper into the room, making his way to the jewelry box atop a chest of drawers. With gloved hands, he grabbed the box, dropping it into a nylon ditty bag. As he turned to enter the closet, he was cold clocked by what felt like the whip of an alligator's tail. Before he could react, a second blow struck him in the melon, and his world went black.

      A fuzzy-slippered and hair-curlered Charlotte darted from the room, Louisville Slugger in hand. Aiming for the kitchen's wall mounted phone, she simultaneously flipped the power switch while scooping up the receiver. She had already dialed 9-1-1 before the light brought Gordon's downed body into view.

      Gordon blinked at the blaring light, sat up and rubbed his head. He turned toward the chatter. "Charlotte?"

      "It's okay, Sugar." Charlotte said in between answering the dispatcher's barrage of questions. "That son of a bitch met my good friend Louie. He ain't gettin' up for a while."