So we shot him, I think.  At least he seemed startled by something whizzing past.  Glancing quickly to the side, then arms flailing, he fell.  Tumbling down, into the chopped up brambles, Bob landed safely enough in his mother’s bushes.  With a series of curses, we watched on as he sat up startled, shook his head, and cursed some more. 

Then, we heard his mother; “Bob? My god, what the hell are you doing now? Get in this house, and quit that dirty, filthy mouth of yours.”

In a stumble, he was gone.

Read this story in its entirety