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Noises in the winter's night awoke the owner of the old pub.

He sat up with a groan. An icy breeze rattled his bedroom windows, and from the city outside, distant sirens wailed.

Stifling a yawn, the middle-aged man reached for his bedside table to pick up his glasses,

then switched on the police scanner he kept there, and what he heard on the encrypted channel was unexpected.

But what shocked him into full awareness was the noise he heard next. Something

was rattling downstairs. The front door of the pub. Someone was trying to get it open.

If those wannabe gangster kiddos think they can break into my place, the barkeep grumbled,

flinging back the covers and standing. They've got another thing coming for him.

Sliding his cold feet into slippers, he grabbed the loaded shotgun beside his bedroom door

and moved as quickly and quietly as he could across the hall and down the stairs to the pub.

The soft glow of the street lights shone through the frosted windows, and the string of Christmas

lights above the bar twinkled green, orange and red.

The bar keeps squinted down the barrel of his shotgun at the front door.

When it was wrenched suddenly open from the outside, screws falling from the broken handle.

Swirls of wind-swept snowflakes streamed inside. The pub's closed, you muppets.

...