Howard ran his fingers over his badge, feeling nostalgic for days gone by. He would no longer be the sheriff of this one-horse Mayberry town, and it was killing him. He would never yell at a five year old for jaywalking, or grill an old lady when she parked slightly outside the lines; he was done. Over. Impeached.
How could he have known the kid he was shooting at was the mayor's son? He looked like every other punk kid, with his pimply face and hip-hop jeans. He wasn't dead, just injured.
Howard rubbed his badge and laughed.
"An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way." -Charles Bukowski
"And by the way, dearie, your punctuation sucks canal water!" -The ghost of Vivian Vance