It was always the same. The old man would open the door and the half a dozen or so kids who were playing on his front lawn would scatter. He didn’t even have to yell, “Hey you kids, get off of my lawn” like he used to.
At first they seemed to be scared of the crusty old geezer. But these days it was more like a game to those damn juvenile delinquents. They’d run off when he’d fling open his front door, only to return within minutes of his going back inside.
“I’ll teach those young whippersnappers,” the old man said to himself. He went down to the basement and pulled his old deer rifle off the shelf, loaded a single cartridge into the chamber, and headed back upstairs.
He opened the front door, went out on the stoop and yelled, “I told you kids a thousand times to get off of my lawn and I’m not going to tell you again!” He aimed his rifle into the air and shot it. Once again, all of the kids scattered.
The old man never saw the boy who had climbed up into the old oak tree until his lifeless body fell to the ground.
Written for this week’s Let It Bleed prompt from Saumya Agrawal.