Wanna-be-robber number One had a gun. Behind him wanna-be-robber number Two was smarter; he was unarmed. Both marched right into the house, apparently intent on going to the bedroom. When they came to the kitchen, however, it would be hard to say who was more surprised…Dixie Wynn the homeowner or gunman and partner.
Robber number One threw up his gun, an automatic reaction to finding someone where she shouldn’t be and a misguided attempt to eliminate a threat. As he raised his gun to shot, Dixie Winn raised the cast iron skillet in her hand. Number One did another dumb thing…he pulled the trigger.
In the next few seconds the tiny kitchen rang with the sounds of Hell. The bullet hit the cast iron with a resounding bong, ricocheted off the metal and returned to robber number One, quite fatally lodging right between his eyes. The thud of a dead man dropping to a tiled floor was muffled by the clattering, rattling sound of the cast iron skillet hitting the tiles, the force of the bullet’s impact having knocked the pan out of Dixie’s hands.
Robber number Two might have been smart NOT to be carrying a gun but that didn’t mean he didn’t have his moments of stupid.
The impact of the bullet hitting the pan not only knocked it out of Dixie’s hand, it also spun her around. As she followed through on her turn, her ears ringing with the clang of the pan on the floor she realized the gun was also on the floor. She swooped down, picked it up and in one smooth move had both feet planted, hands securely on the gun, finger on the trigger and a look in her eyes that would have warmed Dirty Harry’s heart.
Number Two should have given in, put up his hands and been glad he wasn’t the one dead on the floor, but as mentioned, an instance of stupid hit him hard. He ran. One more shattering boom and number Two went down just outside the kitchen door, a gurgling scream accompanying his falling, followed by cussing mingled with pleas for help. His hands in the meantime trying to staunch the blood flowing from a wound in his left butt check.
“Damn, I meant to hit your knee cap,” Dixie muttered as she reached for the landline phone. “911? Yeah, my name is Dixie Winn and I just shot a man in the butt.”
To the dispatcher’s credit, she probably tried NOT to laugh but the way Dixie said that was so nonchalant, as if she did that sort of thing every day and oh bother I did it again, the poor dispatcher was howling with mirth until Dixie added, “Oh yeah, and I killed the other guy.”
911 immediately sobered up.