Predators and Prey, fiction by N.M. Cedeno
H e was so focused on how many gold necklaces he could grab from the smashed display case that the distinctive cha-chunk of a pump-action shotgun behind his head almost caused Ziggy to faint. “You made a serious mistake, son.” The booming voice of the wrinkled, pink dude behind the glass counter was unnervingly loud. It reminded Ziggy of his grandfather, who would have tanned his hide if he knew what Ziggy was doing. Gramps had been loud too, though Ziggy never considered why that might be. Maybe old dudes with big ears and bumpy, misshapen noses were always loud to compensate for being ancient. “Drop the pistol, put down the necklaces, and face me,” the too-loud voice commanded. Ziggy did what he was told. Under his ski mask his face and head were soaked with sweat. The droplets trickled down his neck. The old dude came around the counter and collected Ziggy’s gun. “This thing is plastic. Is it a water gun? What the hell were you thinking?” Ziggy bit the inside of his chee...