He heard the twig snap, the crunch of loose gravel under heavy boots.
There wasn’t time to turn, to get a good visual – the hairy, sweaty forearm was already around his neck squashing his windpipe. Then came the cold steel barrel against the small of his back.
His face quickly flushed, his eyelids sagged, his vision grew blurry.
Who knew a gas station in the middle of nowhere could be so dangerous?
All he wanted was to pump a few gallons in peace and get on with his evening.
And now, instead, he was going to have to get mad…
The Weekday One Hundred 