“Drop the gun. Now,” I said.
The man opened his hand. The automatic fell to the floor. He kept his hands up.
“Kick it to me.”
I looked at him. “What are you looking for?”
“Man, I’m not saying shit. I want a lawyer.”
I looked at him. I opened the cylinder of my Smith & Wesson and dumped all six cartridges into my left hand. I put one back in and closed the cylinder. I dropped the other cartridges into my jacket pocket.
“What were you doing here,” I asked.
“Fuck you,” he sneered.
I held the revolver somewhat sideways and pulled the hammer back about half-way with my thumb. I spun the cylinder with my left hand, the gun made a rapid clicking noise. Then I quickly pointed it at the man and snapped the trigger. The trigger fell with a loud metallic clank.
“Hey, what the fuck!”
“What were you doing here?
“Man, you’re nuts!”
I repeated the process, spinning the cylinder and then pointing the gun at him and pulling the trigger.
“Jesus fucking God, man!”
“What are you doing here?”
“Christ, I’m going to sue you for every fucking--”
I repeated the process again. This time, the gun went off. The burglar fell back against the wall and then slid down to the floor. He looked at me, coughed once, and then the light went out of his eyes. He fell over sideways.
I kicked his gun back over to him. I loaded my revolver with the other cartridges, taking care that the fired cartridge was under the hammer when I closed it back up. Then I went over to the telephone on the desk and called 9-1-1. I gave them my name, address, told them that I had shot an intruder in my office and that they needed to send an ambulance right now. Then I hung up.
I squatted down and looked at the dead guy again. His eyes were still open. I felt for a pulse, knowing that he probably had none. He didn’t surprise me.
I stood up and looked down at him.
“Oops,” I said.