“You’re not aiming properly,” my brother told me.

I tried centering the cans in my sights, but my hands shook tremendously. Everytime I had the can centered I pulled the trigger, the loud gun jumping in my hand. With each shot I felt I was getting closer.

“You’re not even holding the gun properly,” my brother told me exasperated from where he was sitting on the grassy knoll. “Jack, give me a second.”

My fists clenched the front of his shirt with a painful amount of strength. Slamming him against the wall only made him squeal like a pig and wish a worse fate upon his sorry state. The way I was feeling I was happy to put him through such a fate. I threw him to the side, into the corner of the room, pointing my revolver at his stumbling form, firing without a moment’s hesitation. The sorry-excuse of a man collapsed dead in his stumbling and I yelled my anger with the roar of the gun.