The door flew outward off its hinges without even a stutter to the motion, crashing into a wall and splintering.
All the eyes in the room darted to the open doorway. Someone’s grasp wrapped around a pistol, but hesitated to use it. The others: a woman, two children, and one teenage male, all remained quiet.
“Hello, hello. Hello!”
The voice crashed in waves. Authoritative and arrogant. And a foot moved over the threshold.
“Hello to the house of 321 Hue Street. How has it been?”
The hand found the grasp on the pistol firm now and fired. A quick pop of light from the muzzle illuminated the thing in front of the doorway: a suited man with his hands out in front of him. The bullet hit his overlapped palms and spun a few times before dropping to the ground with a click.
“Not good I see.”
The man with the suit stepped inside, and filing in behind him were four soldiers, all wearing black, with black helmets, and hands covered in red gloves. They all wielded bright yellow rifles.
“Leave,” came a nervous order. An old man with white hair. He leveled the rusted pistol, and his hand shook.
“And why should I?”
“Because this is my home.”
“Is it…Mister Bell. Is it?”
“Yes,” Mister Bell said.
“Oh, I see.” The suited man pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. He clicked his tongue a few times before rolling the paper up and placing it on his lips. He pulled out a lighter and lit it ablaze. “I see. Indeed. Are you sure of that now?”
“Yes. My name is in the will. My family owns this house—and you will not take it away from me.”
“A will,” the suited man said, and took a puff of the burning paper. An inky black smoke leaked out of his mouth. “Like this one? Legally, I suppose, the will still stands. But a will does tend to lose a lot of its power when all the people involved are dead.”
The soldiers pointed their rifles at the family. The children cried. The woman attempted to be brave and failed. The teenager attempted to be brave and became apathetically numb. Mister Bell kept his hand up, but even more now did it shake.
“You can’t do any of this. I don’t care who or what is ruling this country. We founded it on ideas, and you can’t take those away.”
The suited man chuckled, which built to a snicker, which built to a laugh, which built to a mania making his entire frame shake as he looked up at the ceiling. A series of small creatures flowed underneath his skin and writhed within his exposed throat.
“Human guard number ten?” he said, his breath ragged from laughing.
“Sir,” replied the guard.
“Remind me to smoke the Constitution when I get back to my office.”
“Sir, yes sir.”
The suited man bowed once to Mister Bell and straightened up with a grin. “What was that about freedom?”
“That you’ve taken it. But I haven’t yet said the word.”
“And that’s just how we like it. Fire at will.”
—
Coolerbs Writes 