Chapter 4:

“The Thief”


Bartholomew Ignatius Wreeth was a rather odd fellow indeed, and he often found himself in ridiculous situations and circumstances far beyond his control and abilities. Such as his most current predicament, a quandary if ever there was one, the gun in his hands shaking quite loudly as he attempted to aim.


Bearing the title of most popular bolt-action rifle in history, the gun is the choice of military and law enforcement officers alike. The Model 700 is unparalleled in its precision, and whether defending freedom or out on the hunt, its accuracy is unmatched.

At least, that’s what the fella at “Guns Buns and Ammo” told him.


“I said BACK OFF” Bartholomew echoed. The thief laughed, seeing Bartholomews shakiness as weakness, and mistaking him for an easy mark. The wannabe robber had picked the wrong house, at exactly the wrong time; it was almost 2am and Bartholomew had been having trouble sleeping, so he had decided to take out his new Remington 700 to clean and dismantle it, a habit picked up from his years served in the 52nd. The rifle shook because his shoulder had almost been blown off his body three years ago, an injury that had abruptly ended his service in the army, and caused him much grief ever since.


Bartholomew didn’t really have much, he lived a very minimalistic lifestyle, opting for the bare necessities rather than living beyond his means. He had a small apartment in Upper East Anaheim, with a two-seater couch and a 32 inch tv in his living room, with not much else. His bedroom had a queen bed with a dark oak headboard, a mahogany tallboy and one singular bedside table that held a very ugly and dirty lamp. His kitchen had a bar fridge and an oven that was probably from the mid-eighties, and not much else. He really had nothing of value to steal.


The thief was obviously not from the area, or he would perhaps have known better than to pick this house to bust into, let alone any of Bartholomew’s neighbours, his wasn’t exactly the richest neighbourhood in Anaheim. Perhaps he was lost, or just too desperate to know any different, but whatever the case it was about to be the last mistake he would ever make. The shaking in his arm finally stopped, and Bartholomew steadied and raised the rifle up to his shoulder and prepared to fire. His finger squeezed the trigger as he exhaled and an eerie calm settled over him, and the thief’s eyes widened as he realised what was about to happen.


The sound was explosive in such a small space, and Bartholomew’s ears rang with an intensity that would be hard matched by the screech of a trains wheels sliding against the tracks as it drew to a complete stop. The gunsmoke filled the air like that of a fire tearing through a strangled forest, dense and heavy. “Great, now I gotta clean all this up” Bartholomew thought to himself, rather bemused. I guess war really changes one’s perspective.


The End.