Officers adjusted bullet proof vests and re-checked loaded weapons. The suburban street cordoned off by flashing police vehicles. As on-lookers craned for a view with camera phones in hand.
“NOooooooooo. Get up ya not hurt…” the shout came from inside the house.
The Sargent addressed his men. “Neighbours spotted the wife and kids clearin’ out earlier. Can’t be sure of numbers inside. But confirmed one male, refusing to answer his phone. So team up, two to the rear, front and sides. Rest with me. Wait for my signal.” They dashed to designated areas.
“Kill him. Don’t let ‘em get away-”
The front door smashed down as men in black battle fatigues dived inside, smashing windows, knocking over furniture, with guns raised. “ARMS UP.”
Seated, with beer in hand, he gawked up from the television screen. “G’day, fella’s. Just watchin’ the footy final. If ya wanted a beer and a score’s update you could’ve just knocked.”
A note for my neighbours across the acreage:
On behalf of the ‘Local-Consensus’ (shed-dwelling lads dabbling in beer-babbling bulldust) we’d like to thank our neighbors in advance for their patience and selective hearing during football finals. We plan to return to some form of civility after the final sun-setting siren on the Grand Final, when Summer and Cricket returns.
Of course, if our team wins…. you’ll never hear the end of it!
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