You sit there and do nothing.

Bomb. The very word make you freeze in your chair.

The woman shoves the stranger away and flees. Customers scatter like roaches from a porch light. Thoughts race through your head: is he a terrorist? A junkie? A lunatic?

Before you can bolt from your seat, the store manager (a paunchy dude with a goatee) lumbers up to the scene.

"What the hell, sir?" the manager barks.

"You gotta help me," the trench-coated man rasps. His voice is like sandpaper on another piece of sandpaper.

"I gotta call 911 on your ass if you're not out of here in three seconds." The manager already has his cell phone out and is dialing with his thumb. He pauses. "That's not a bomb, is it?"

"He's right behind me! Someone, please help!" The stranger's legs buckle and he goes down to his knees.

And a good thing too, for at that moment a motorcycle comes crashing through the glass doors, right over his head!

Pick a number at random. If odd, follow the first choice. If even, follow the second choice.

The End

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