Saxon's Hunt
The screech of tires woke Saxon. The first time he had awakened to a cold sweat in years, and he couldn't remember the dream. But the smell of burnt rubber and garbage was incredibly strong, and he was inclined to believe he was fully awake. His alarm clock, directly across the room, read 1:25. A movement caught his eye. His eyes darted to the area. Nothing moved. Then he made out the figure of a man. He was dressed in rags and moved slowly with the stiffness of the outside cold air. In his hand, he held the handset to Sax's telephone, whispering silently into the mouth piece. Quite irregular, he knew. His unkempt hair blended into oblivion. The stench of garbage renched Sax's innards, nearly to the point of regurgitating. He paused momentarily, glancing about the room. Saxon instantly froze. The room was cluttered about with odds and ends, and even some of his clothing lay strewn across the floor. Someone had been searching for something. Then he began to speak once more. Saxon focused in, listening intently...

"No, Mac. He ain't got it. 'Checked his whole room. Nothin' worth much but a CD player. My gawd he's a penny pincher. Or he's as poor as an artist. The jerks an idiot, I think... What? Number 102? Ship yards, Mac! Ya' told me 104! Go to... What? Yes. I'm a goin'. Gotta get some dough somehow, Mac." He clicked the handset down, and drifted toward the door. Saxon reached for the .357 chrome magnum lying on the shelf just above his head. The cold steel reasurred him. The intruder paused, staring as if in debate at the CD player.

"Luckily, my computer system is hidden in the basement," Saxon thought to himself. He pulled back the hammer. The man stepped toward the machinery, hands out as if to recieve it into his hands. "Touch it and die!" Saxon glowered toward the thief. The thief spun and caught the glint of chrome in the dim light.

"I'm homeless, Fool! You can't knife me!"

"T'ain't no knife, Dirt. Step toward me and find out just what it is!" The man made as if to retreat. After second thoughts, he began to move toward Saxon. The roar of the pistol shattered the silence of the night. Flash after flash errupted from the cold barrel. A continuous stream of lead sank deep into the old man spattering blood into the extremities of the room and knocking him to the ground. He lay there, quivering in a pool of his own blood, and ceased to metabolize.