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Black Sunday Morning

Monty looked down the barrel of the gun. It was a dark hole right in front of his face and the man behind the gun stared at him angrily and was shouting. This was clearly not the Sunday morning Monty had imagined when he got up just an hour before. He was still in his bathrobe, pajama pants and a shirt that had seen better days too. He sat on a chair in his kitchen, looking intently at the gun that was just inches away from his nose. His cup of coffee was still sitting on the kitchen table to his right and he could smell the aromatic cloud hanging in the air, but he did not dare to turn around. He had looked behind the barrel and the man with the gun didn't look like he would fancy pointing his gun at a guy who was sipping coffee. No, this guy was not the friendly coffee type, Monty had decided then.

Monty dared to let his eyes wander again, up the barrel, over the gloved hand holding the gun, and over the black uniform of the man who was so decidedly against coffee. The man was still shouting, but Monty didn't listen. His eyes were fixed on the letters that seemed to hover over the uniform's dark texture: DEA.

His brain, coffee starved as it was, tried to make sense of that. Was an “I” missing? He giggled a little and the barrel came closer. No giggling, no coffee. Okay, Monty decided, this was not a good Sunday at all.

One of the other uniformed men shouted something at his captor who took a few steps back. Monty regarded the scenery beyond the kitchen door. There were about a dozen man, all clad in black, all armed with guns of varying sizes, and they were apparently all really angry at his furniture. Two had flipped his couch upside down and were in the process of cutting it open. They clawed at it and stuck their hands inside. It was brutal. That couch deserved better, Monty reminisced. It was a veteran of many man-hours of watching TV, eating greasy food and drinking beer. You will be missed, Monty thought and giggled again.

The guy didn't take notice this time, he had turned around and was speaking to one of the furniture haters. They were whispering to each other, but Monty didn't listen anyway. He was eying his cup of coffee. Everyone seemed to be busy with ripping his stuff apart or chatting. He let his hand glide over the table and grabbed the cup. Nobody noticed. Good, Monty cheered silently, maybe it wasn't all downhill. He lifted the cup and brought it to his lips. The coffee wasn't hot anymore, just lukewarm, but it was still good enough and decidedly better than having no coffee at all. He gulped it all down and when he lowered the cup, he stared into the barrel again. Monty smile broadly and looked at the guy behind the gun. He didn't seem happy.

One of the other guys came into the kitchen and whispered into his friend's ear. He turned and looked quizzically at the messenger, then back at Monty who was still holding on to the now empty cup. There was a moment of silence, they both seemed to process what was going on and looked at Monty in his bathrobe, obviously unsure what to do next. Monty smiled again, in an attempt to defuse the tension.

Suddenly they left him in the kitchen and more people started talking outside. There was a back and forth of opinions, but Monty just stared at the bottom of his coffee cup. It was about time for another round, he decided.

The anti-coffee guy came back and stood before him with a perplexed face.

“Mr. Brook,” he said, “I'm afraid this was a mistake, we… got the wrong house.”

Monty looked him in the eyes and pressed his lips together. The wrong house? What was that supposed to mean? This was his house, how could it be wrong?

Before he could say anything the man concluded his visit with a torrent of rushed apologies and then disappeared with the others as fast as they had shown up.

He heard shouting outside and a flutter of noises. They were now storming into his neighbor's house, Monty realized lazily. He got up and took in the view of his butchered living room. From the window he could see them rushing into Eduardo's house. They were shouting and making weird signs with their gloved hands. It was a mess. Poor Eduardo wouldn't like this very much either.

Monty went back into the kitchen and started making fresh coffee. Luckily they had left before they found the stuff in the cellar. That would have been hard to explain, Monty thought while he drank his second black coffee and smiled broadly.

Fiction | Flash Fiction


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