[ WP ] You 're a robber in a house coming down the stairs with valuable items from the master bedroom . You encounter another robber in the home on your way out ; Write a story about what happens .

Do they still call it a `` Mexican Standoff'' if neither party is of Hispanic descent? I guess that does n't matter much, I was in a Mexican Standoff. My gun hand was shaking, wavering just slightly. My palm felt sweaty against the handle of my.38. His face appeared to be twitching nervously in the not-quite darkness. 
 
 `` Who the fuck are you?'' I ask the stranger, hoping his trigger finger was n't starting to itch much like mine was. Ah, brevity. Something something wit. 
 
 `` Who the fuck are you?'' the baritone voice mimics. Good. He seems every bit as uncomfortable with this situation as I am. At least we're on equal footing. 
 
 My eyes briefly flicker around the room, darting left, then right, looking for egress. Finding nothing immediate except the doorway my nemesis was currently occupying, I drop the duffel bag full of valuables I had gathered in my raid of the bedroom. 
 
 `` I'm, um.'' A bead of sweat rolls down my temple. `` I'm terrible under stress.'' Yeah, that sounded like someone in control of a situation. 
 
 `` Well I'm a burglar, and by the looks of things, so are you.'' His words sound so self assured, but the crack in his voice gives away the false bravado. 
 
 I breathe in, possibly for the first time since finding myself staring the barrel of this guy's hand cannon. I push the breath out heavily, sighing in resignation. `` So how do we finish this? I do n't really feel like bleeding out in a stranger's house, and I'm pretty sure you do n't particularly fancy being shot either.'' There, that sounds much more confident. 
 
 A car could be heard coming down the street of this quiet little neighborhood, and in the passing headlights, I could see worry writ huge upon his face, and an opportunity. Not sure what I was doing, and acting on pure instinct alone, I reach down and grab the duffel, and pitched it at him the second he appeared to be distracted. 
 
 The unwanted plus-one, not expecting this move ( neither was I, honestly ), reacted by catching the bag, dropping his gun in the process. A deafening roar sounds, like a hymn of prayer falling on deaf ears, rings out in the dark as his gun discharges. Fuck. Now the police are definitely being called. This has to be resolved, and fast. 
 
 `` Drop the bag. Slowly.'' He complies quickly. I stride forward, my gun still trained on him. `` Move and you'll be shitting in a bag for the rest of your life. If you have a rest of your life.'' His eyes go wide as saucers, trembling beneath the weight of the couple pounds worth of death pointed within inches of his face. `` That's right, doing good.'' I'd like to thank the academy for this award. Outwardly, I seemed like I was completely in control. Inside I was shitting my figurative pants. 
 
 `` Step out of the doorway and take a seat over there,'' my gun flicking over to the living room. Hesitantly, he does as I ask. `` Alright, so here's the story. You're going to stay here, and I'm going to walk out of here with my ill-gotten goods. The cops should be here any time now.'' 
 
 And, just like in the movies, I bring the butt of the pistol down on his head as hard as I can. 
 
 Unlike in the movies, his head busts open, and he falls forward. His blood soaks into the off-white carpet. He twitches a couple times, and then goes still. 
 
 I do what any sensible man would do in this situation. Falling to my knees, I puke my guts out. Jesus Christ, have I just killed a man? I'm gon na get the needle for sure. 
 
 `` Stay. Calm. I just need to get out of here.'' I'm talking to myself out loud now. That does n't seem like a good sign, but lacking the luxury of time to contemplate, I instead pocket my piece and grab my bag of loot and walk out the door. 
 
 I'm home free. I'll pawn it all a few counties away, and things will be just fine. I'll sell it off and make a tidy profit. I'll- 
 
 `` Freeze, dirtbag! Local PD! You're under arrest.'' A spotlight goes on, and my world becomes white. I drop the duffel, and lay down on the ground. What other choice did I have? I could n't see. There could be twenty guns pointed at me right now. 
 
 The cuffs they snapped onto my wrists were particularly cold, like bonds of ice. At least I still have enough of my wits about me to keep my mouth shut until I get to talk to a lawyer, but if my counterpart inside is dead, it's not gon na matter much. I still have the piece on me, his blood all over it. My hand probably has his blood on it. 
 
 Shit. 
 

