Hangdog

“I don’t want any trouble.”

He had a lean, hangdog look about him. His overgrown beard hide his face, but his eyes, unexpectedly clear, held an unquenchable fire.

Pulling his fists from the pockets of his old, military field jacket, he showed empty hands to the men barring his way.

“Just let me go on my way,” he said, his head down to avoid eye contact.

What happened next remains a mystery. The transient disappeared, and the two men who accosted him laid dead in the street. No visible signs of injury, only expressions of abject terror on their faces.

Inspiration: Trouble

 

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