Tangled in the sheets I threw myself out of the bed at the sound of a thud, like a body sailing against the front door rattling the frame and making the lamp on my nightstand shiver. My vision wavered as I swung my head to check the clock which in a spreading halo of red shone 3:05. Running to the hallway I saw our dog standing in the living room looking around while the two cats crouched low against the sofa. Streetlight flooded the room in a sickly yellow glow as inky shadows shifted about my feet. Turning slowly to the back windows I caught a reflection of someone staking outside. My breath caught in my throat as I hunched over and darted to nearest wall, pressing up against it I wished I had something to hold as a weapon.

My thoughts drifted to my grandmother who kept a stout length of hickory, turned like an old fashioned policeman’s club with a leather cord looped through the handle, by her bedside. “Interlopers will regret crossing my threshold,” she would rasp and I imagined her one hand firmly on her walker, the other raising the club with deadly intent, and her face contouring in rage as her white nightdress flowed behind as she shuffled determinedly towards the intruder. I had nothing beyond a rolled up magazine within reach though it would be unlikely that a swift smack from Vegetarian Times would be enough to dissuade a would be thief. Visions of a lanky man, topped by a stringy mullet, and wearing a sleeveless tee shirt adorned with a skull wrapped in the Confederate flag and the words “Southern Pride” printed in simple block letters filled my mind. The room shrank as I saw him, stained and broken teeth, menacing my wife with a dull, small caliber revolver breathing out a cheap whiskey soaked, “I wants what’s mine..”

With as much courage as I could muster I peeled myself from the wall and sprinted into the kitchen hoping to make it to the back door before the skulker reached it. Panic set in as I saw someone at the door and it looked as if the doorknob was turning with moonlight and streetlight glinting over its shiny brass surface. Slipping on the runner near the sink I leapt for the door and for the first time looked my adversary deep in the eyes. Running into the counter I stared hard as the microwave cheerfully lit the up the corner of the kitchen with the time. 3:06. Why was he wearing dark maroon pajama pants with dogs printed allover?

There is such a thing as too much Court TV before bedtime.