Saturday morning had arrived.
Kurt inspected the battered door frame at the rear of the house, which lead to the kitchen. For the third time this month someone had smashed in, taking valuables and wrecking the place.
"Un-be-lievable," he muttered.
Overturned tables and chairs, broken glass scattered among the contents of his cupboards littered the kitchen floor. It looked as though a mad bull had rammed through the door in pursuit of an elusive, imaginary matador, trampling anything in its path.
Tiptoeing through the dining room and kitchen he cautiously surveyed the living room.
The raging bull had left its mark here as well. No doubt the entire house had been left in a state of total disarray.
It was the same old story.
Again, all the valuables in the house had been stolen: VCR's, televisions, stereos, jewelry,--- any and everything that could be hocked at a pawn shop or local flea market.
Kurt shook his head with disgust.
He was fed up with someone breaking in and taking all the things that he himself had worked so hard to steal. All his stake-outs, planning, and execution to ensure a successful robbery were being wasted on this unethical thief who kept waltzing into his house and helping himself, as if it were some kind of hot-item smorgasbord.
"Do you know how long it took to rip these things off?", Kurt asked the presently absent crook, while staring down the hall toward his bedroom. "I mean---give me a break, dude. Have a little respect for a fellow colleague."
With each step deeper into his house, Kurt felt the surge of anger swell inside his head as he came to the conclusion that enough was enough. Initially, he'd even marveled at the irony of the situation---after all, a crook robbing a crook---.
How rich!
He couldn't even report the incident to the police.
After the second break-in, Kurt realized that he was being targeted. Someone had decided that he was an easy mark---and this infuriated him. He knew that he had to take precautions but wasn't certain what measures should be taken.
In short, he had procrastinated.
Now here he stood---a victim for the third time.
"Well, buddy, boy! Three strikes and you're out!," he huffed.
A wicked idea began formulating in his mind; a possible solution to his inconvenient problem. A tinge of excitement coursed along his spine and little goose-bumps rose on his flesh as he envisioned a rapidly unfolding plot inside his head.
Though, he generally considered himself a "break and enter man", Kurt wasn't entirely opposed to killing someone if the need arose.
He had killed before.
During a robbery several years back, a woman appeared behind him while he was emptying her jewelry box. Kurt had been caught totally off-guard. He'd watched the house for a week and witnessed the woman leaving day after day at 3 p.m. She routinely returned between six and seven each night.
This particular day had been an exception---perhaps, she had forgotten something.
For whatever reason---her sudden appearance startled him.
He had attempted to shove past her, only wanting to escape. Unfortunately, she apparently wasn't satisfied with simply scaring him away. No---she had to scream---and pull a small revolver from her purse.
Kurt was left with little choice.
He gunned her down.
In actuality, it was self defense---or, at least, self preservation. This was how he justified her death to himself, whenever he recalled the twisted body laying on the floor. Of course, since he'd killed her during the commission of a burglary---Kurt would have certainly been convicted of murder.
Oh, well---just a minor inconvenience that sometimes comes with the territory.
Shaking his head at the vivid recollection, he rummaged through the debris on the bedroom floor until a pen and notepad was located. He hastily sketched a preliminary blue-print for an anti-breaking and entering device. Several drawings and a couple of hours later, Kurt held a perfected plan for implementing revenge on his uninvited, repeat intruder.
He jotted down a list of necessary supplies.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent repairing the damaged door frame and restoring a little order to the interior of his home. Later that night, he drove to the hardware store and purchased the supplies.
Kurt worked long into the night.
Finally, his brainchild was complete. He admired his ingenuity and handiwork, checking his creation for sturdiness and eventually resting a Colt 45 handgun in a specially crafted cradle in the center of the large wooden frame.
He tightened the bolts that secured the gun and double checked the homemade silencer at the barrel end of the miniature cannon. His excitement was barely kept in check as he rushed the device to the kitchen and placed it several feet from the rear door.
Eagerly, he stretched a strand of thin wire from the guns trigger, through a small pulley, and connected it to an eye-hook on the kitchen door. Aimed chest high, the Colt was set to fire when the door opened about two feet.
Kurt re-checked the alignment.
Since the thief would undoubtedly kick the door in again---he'd never know what hit him.
It was fabulous.
Kurt congratulated himself. After a shower and several beers, he turned in for the night. One week crawled by with no incidents. Each day Kurt routinely checked to be certain that everything was still properly aligned.
"Any day, now, bud. Don't disappoint me," he'd whisper to himself as he conducted the daily inspections.
Two days later, a man across town decided it was time to hit his favorite mark. Although, he averaged several burglaries each week---it was a thrill to hit this particular house.
Sonny laughed to himself, thinking of how frustrated the person must become upon discovering that all his valuables had once again been stolen.
"You'll be an expert door installer once I'm done with you," he remarked mischievously. He casually wondered when and if the guy would ever get a watchdog---or an alarm system.
Oh well. He'd cross that bridge when and if he ever came to it.
Sonny often checked the local newspaper for any mention of the repeat burglaries. To his dismay, he found nothing. He thought it was kind of odd but then who was he to second guess the decisions of an editor on what to add in the paper and what to leave out.
He felt the small caliber handgun in his pocket.
It was his life insurance---and, he wasn't afraid to use it. A .22 bullet in the right spot could stop a man dead in his tracks just as easily as a larger weapon could. After all, dead is dead--- there's no sense in getting messy about it.
That was one thing about Sonny. He knew he'd never be caught. The blood in his veins was icy cold and if it ever came to it---he'd go down firing. Under no circumstances would he ever spend a single night in jail.
That night, he drove the several miles across town to the neighborhood of his favorite target. He drove slowly in front of the house.
There was no vehicle in the driveway.
This didn't particularly surprise him because the man never seemed to be at home. Regardless of what time Sonny drove by, the house always appeared empty.
At the end of the road, he turned right into an alley that ran behind the row of houses he'd just passed. Upon glimpsing the familiar cluster of tall hedges, he pulled his pickup truck into a small opening that lead into his favorite victim's backyard.
"Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work I go!"
Sonny left the engine running just in case.
He strolled almost casually to the rear of the house, glancing to each side, reassuring himself that he'd not been spotted. He then inched toward the tattered, but again repaired back door. After a final glance around, he turned and kicked the door with a mighty, forceful blow.
Wood splintered.
The door swung open.
A sudden flash registered in the corner of his eye.
It all happened so quickly that he didn't immediately connect it to the excruciating pain in his chest. He lay on the ground, his life force quickly seeping away.
Just before everything went black, a confusing memory surfaced in Sonny's tortured mind. Somehow, mental pictures formed of a person building a device much like the one he could see through his blurred vision. Curiously, he felt that somehow he should've been aware of the danger that awaited him here.
Seconds later Sonny was dead.
Later, when police were called to the scene and discovered the body, the photo identification found on Sonny Lambert matched perfectly with the driver's license found in the house of Kurt Thompson. Kurt had successfully delivered his revenge on the thief---unfortunately, the other man was himself. For the past several years, he had unknowingly suffered from a split personality.
The End
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