Behind the empty Johnnie Walker bottle his S&W revolver whispered at him in her voice. The voice that would haunt him forever. Her stalker was harmless, he had said. Crippled, immobile. A keyboard commando. Until the day he fired the shotgun through her door.
He tipped the bottle to his lips, chasing that elusive last drop. The worn, crosscut grip invited him to pick up the weapon. His Glock was gone, taken by OPR with his badge, ID, and before that his self-respect.
The metallic tang of the barrel on his tongue was sweet relief. He thumbed back the hammer.
(Note – I stole this 100 word concept from Smitty at The Other McCain. The words are original.)