It’s a cold March afternoon. A driving rain whips in off the ocean as Eddie goes into the liquor store a block from Resorts for a pack of Camels. There’s nobody else in there but him and the clerk – a short guy with pock-marked skin, scraggly beard, and a wandering eye that trails Eddie as he moves up and down each aisle.
He’s just a minimum wage guy, Eddie thinks. He’s got no reason to give a shit about anything Eddie wants.
Eddie drops a ten on the counter and grabs his change. He starts for the door then turns back, asking for a couple extra packs of matches.
The clerk leans below the counter. Eddie’s knee length Thrift Store rain coat is open, making it easy to stick a hand inside. By the time the clerk lifts his head Eddie has the sawed off double barrel leveled at his chin while he’s reaching for the open register.
He’s surprised by the forty-five in the clerk’s hand.
Eddie has no last thoughts. The bullets explode into his chest before he can even wrap a finger around the trigger. He dies never expecting anything like that from some minimum wage clerk.