“Everything is always a fight with you!”

Kennedy was fed up with John’s endless temper tantrums.

“We all have bad days, but not every damn day Is a bad day! Why do you have to take a dump on my parade every single day? Can’t you just be happy for me?” Kennedy hollered.

John started to hiss as he sipped on his beer, eyes fixed on the TV as he flipped through TV channels.

Kennedy stormed off and headed straight for his room, slamming the door behind him.

John hissed louder and turned up the TV volume, and took a long sip of his beer, a bit of foam nestling on his moustache.

“You pussy! Can’t even hold down a regular job! Happy for you? You are a damn waiter why they hell should I be happy you became a manager? I will be god-damned happy when you get one of those fancy office jobs wearing a suit!  He yelled back!

Kennedy raised the volume of his stereo in his room.

There was a huge bang against the front door. John turned down the volume on the TV, spilling his beer, cursing at the top of his lungs. He ran to the front door and peered through the glass at the door and he heard a click sound. He moved back from the door inching back slowly heading toward his son’s room.

He knocked on the door, Kennedy increased the volume. The click turned in to a loud band and the front door blasted open with a plume of smoke visually impairing the intruders as they walked in through the door. Kennedy opened his door, the loud music spilling into the smoky corridor his dad, grabbed him by the arm and pointed toward the window at the back of the room leading to the back porch.

They dashed, Kennedy went through, as John was inching through his shirt got caught on a window stopper, he fanned Kennedy to run to safety. John made it out as he heard the bedroom door thrust open and yelling. As he ran across his backyard toward his neighbour’s house across the street yelling, “Call 999! Call 999!”

Neighbours lights turning on as the commotion built. Cracks of gunfire rent the air sending some neighbours lights off to avoid being targets. Mrs Im opened her door and let them both in, John collapsed as she shut the door grabbing his thigh as he felt an unusual wetness. He looked at the hand that has grabbed his thigh and realized he had been shot. Mrs Im grabbed a towel from the bathroom and instructed Kennedy to put pressure on the wound. Mrs Im called her son, a police officer, who happened to be on patrol.

But they were too late. By the time they arrived on the scene, Mrs Im was nursing a broken arm and some cuts, Kennedy was covered in blood, snot and tears as he cradled his father’s blasted skull. No one knew why it happened and who they were; all Mrs Im could recall was what one of the killers said repeatedly as they riddled John with bullets, “This one’s for May!”