Dennis Larsen - With Cruel Intent

"Should do nicely on the door," he thought.

He cupped the bottom, cylindrical portion of the extinguisher in his left hand, leaving the flat striking surface free and clear to slam against the door, his right held the top to provide the direction and thrust needed to break through the obstacle. He tested it a couple of times, getting a feel for the weight as he rocked it back and forth in his grip.

"Here goes nothing!" he said, as he let the weight do the work. The bottom of the cylinder crashed against the wooden door just above the handle. Thwack! There was the faintest sound of wood cracking, but entrance was denied. He swung the extinguisher back again into its cradled position and rocketed it forward with even greater force. A degree of give was evident as a small gap appeared around the seam of the door where it had been snug. Before, what he thought would be the final thrust; he waited to see if anything stirred, nothing did. The thief was correct, on the third and final assault wood splintered and the door swung free from the jam, leaving wood bits from the frame scattered on the kitchen floor and counters. He placed the extinguisher back on the support and entered the home. The kitchen was very modern with stainless steel appliances, granite counter tops and an immaculate hardwood floor, which gleamed and reflected the other polished surfaces that were all around. A small kitchen table occupied a nook area, a stack of letters sat atop it with a cereal bowl and empty juice glass nearby. Milk sat stagnant in the bottom of the bowl, an indication that someone had been home not that long ago.

Lester unlocked the back door and sat the backpack just outside after removing the pepper spray, paint can, and.38 that he put in his pocket. He took a few minutes to clean up the evidence of the explosive entry, taking the splintered wood chips and tossing them into the garage. He closed the damaged door as best he could, allowing it to snug somewhat back into the door jam. On a quick cursory look perhaps someone would overlook the damage unless they examined it more closely. Stepping outside, he closed the back door and stood on the stoop, pointed the paint nozzle at the lower section of the door, and painted the words in bold strokes, R I C H P I G S, the paint thick enough that gravity stretched the letters downward.

Inside the home he surveyed the layout looking for items of value, eventually finding his way to the bedroom. There he found the usual items lying about on dresser tops and in the drawers. Nothing really surprised him anymore. Over the years he’d found just about everything imaginable hidden away in the personal hiding places of unsuspecting people. Today was no different. In what he believed to be the husband’s side of the bed, a small night table with drawer, gave up an adult novel, “The Lusty Librarian.” It looked pretty tame by today’s standards, but he placed it in the pillowcase anyway. Lester pictured the couple in their mid to late 50’s based on the clothing and items he was finding. He tried to leave the room as he found it, returning useless items to their original state and throwing the items of value into a stolen pillowcase as he’d done on previous occasions.

Somewhat disappointed in what he’d found he decided it was time to create some controversy. He returned to the back porch, deposited the half full pillowcase alongside his backpack, and walked through the house looking for an ideal wall to paint more graffiti. The house was a split with a main floor, a half flight of stairs going both up and down. He’d explored everywhere but the lower level that appeared to be only partially finished. The thought of a gun case pushed him lower into the home, thinking that some more handguns would be easy to sell or keep for his own amusement. A laundry area had been somewhat finished as he descended the stairs, located on the right hand side, with bi-fold doors hiding the washer and dryer that were in a stacked configuration. Another matching bi-fold covered an empty space to the right, with a couple of shelves upon which detergent and fabric softener sat, bits of clothing cut into squares filled a bucket, apparently to be used as rags. Some dirty clothing littered the bare floor, but no gun cabinet or safe. The intruder determined that there was nothing of significance in the basement and was about to return to the main floor when he heard a key in the front door deadbolt.

He considered running up the stairs and out the back door but the front entrance was so close to the stairs that a confrontation was bound to happen. Lester pulled the gun from his right pocket and the pepper spray from his left and armed each hand with a means of escape, if necessary. His stomach was doing flip-flops. In all the years of robbing people he had never had to deal with a victim face to face and he didn’t want to start now. Retreating to the laundry area, he opened the bi-fold quietly, hearing the key now enter the locked door handle. He stepped into the empty space below the shelves, and pulled the bi-folds closed, hiding himself and the washer and dryer. He knelt and waited, being able to see through the horizontal slats that made up the central portion of the sectional doors. His breathing increased and he realized there was a very real possibility that he would hyperventilate. The thief momentarily closed his eyes and tried to calm his fight or flight response that was screaming for him to fly. Movement could be heard on the floor just up the first few stairs.

“No speaking, just walking. Whoever it is they must be alone,” he thought.

The gun felt cold in his palm, but there was no doubt he knew how to use it, and the pepper spray, damn…, the pepper spray! He had meant to test it that morning before heading out, but had forgotten in the rush to get this job over with. Hopefully it would function normally. The gun really had to be a last resort, but he could not allow anyone to identify him regardless of the cost.

More movement, then the delicate sound of scraping on the hardwood floor above, followed by a dog whining. “Oh no, this can’t be happening!” he thought, trying desperately to keep from peeing his pants. He could hear the dog moving about, growling lowly, panting and letting out the occasional little bark. At least it didn’t sound like a big dog; perhaps he’d be able to handle it if it were pint sized.

“Rascal, what are you doing in there? Come here, come to mommy,” a woman could be heard saying.

“Maybe she’ll go shopping or something before she notices what’s going on,” Lester thought. Then he realized that when she went from the kitchen to the car, it will be obvious that they’d been broken into. “Oh please, just go into your bedroom, close the door and have a nap.”

The dog continued to run about on the main floor, making some disturbing sounds but not going into full pursuit mode. “Rascal, for heaven’s sake, come to mommy. Wanna treat, wanna treat? Mommy's got a treat for you. Come on boy, come and get it,” she said, trying to convince the animal to join her on the upper level.

“What is she doing up there?”

He listened ever so closely for anything that would give him a clue. Nothing came, other than her footsteps directly above him and the sound of the dog finally joining her for his treat.

“Good boy, good boy,” she exclaimed, in a strange baby like voice.

Whatever she was doing, the noises he was hearing drifting down from the upper level led him to believe that she was going from room to room. But why, and finally he could hear her making her way down the upper stairs, stopping briefly on the main level. He readied the spray and the gun, his left foot flat on the floor and his right knee down, foot back, ready to push him forward in an attack posture. The sound of her steps could be heard coming down the stairs directly at him, the dog leading the way. He held his breath, suddenly realizing that he needed something to disguise his face. On the floor scattered among the few dirty clothing items was a pair of women’s underwear. He looked for something more suitable but there was no time, it would be a second before the dog was at the door. He moved the spray to the right hand, along with the gun, holding them awkwardly while he stretched the granny panties over his head, leaving one eye exposed so he could see where he was shooting or running. The spray was quickly returned to the left hand and he assumed the previous posture again.