Suckers - J.A. Konrath

she's the kind of person who would bottle up rage over my lack of a job, my questionable
babysitting habits, the incident where I accidentally didn't shut the freezer door securely and
ruined hundreds of dollars' worth of frozen meat, and a few dozen other infractions, and let it all
come exploding out of her petite frame in the form of extremely strong disapproval over my
choice of spaghetti sauce.
I shouted back at her (though an onlooker might have mistaken it for shameful cowering and
groveling) and headed out to do a sauce exchange. As I walked into the driveway, I realized that
I'd left my car keys on the kitchen table. Having just been lectured for my lack of responsibility,
I didn't think it was a good idea to walk back into the house and sheepishly say "Uh, forgot my
keys." The store was only ten blocks away. I'd walk.
To keep the walking time to a minimum, I cut through several backyards. I didn't notice the
man breaking into an unfamiliar house until I practically bumped into him. I'm not very
observant.
He had wavy brown hair and a two-day beard that looked like dirt on his cheeks in the semidarkness.
Clenched in his teeth was a penlight, aimed down at the doorjamb where he wiggled a
pry bar. Upon hearing me he dropped the tool and dug into his trenchcoat, removing a handgun
the size of a loaf of handgun-shaped French bread.
"Beeb, brubbubber!" he said.
"I beg your pardon?"
He removed the penlight from his mouth. "Freeze, bloodsucker!"
"I beg your pardon?"
I'd been called a lot of things in my life, many of them only a few minutes ago, but
"bloodsucker" was a new one.
The man pointed the gun at me and glanced down at the jar in my hand. "What's that? A jar
of Type O positive?"
"It's Momma Helga's Spaghetti Sauce."
"Why does it have a penis on the label?"
"That's a mushroom."
"It looks like a penis."
"No, it looks like a chef's hat. But it's a mushroom."
"Drop the penis sauce and get down on your knees. Then open your mouth."
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