Those damn foxes.

John loved his house and the property surrounding it. A white ranch house with a wrap around porch, a garage big enough for his car. The property was well maintained, they had a chicken coop, a couple goats, a pond, and thick forest surrounding them.

Which is exactly where those damn foxes came from.

He had been in the garage working on his 1967 Ford Mustang, he also had a 1965 Aston Martin. He drove his Ram truck most days but he loved working on his cars and driving them around on special occasions.

The garage door was open and out of the corner of his eye John had spotted a herd of about six or seven foxes. Thankfully, he kept a few hunting rifles and handguns in the garage. John grabbed a pistol, making his footsteps quiet as he stalked around the back of the house. The foxes already had one chicken.

Squaring his shoulders, he pointed his gun and fired. Every shot landed on target, the six gunshots ringing out.

What followed was the sound of his wife’s startled yelp and the sound of their baby waking from their nap and wailing. Then-

“Johnathon Price!”

He winces at the sound of his name, flicking the safety of the gun on as he scurries into the garage to put it away then inside his home to deal with the damage control.