A Missed Opportunity
Hunting rats and my desire to kill them was the first topic of conversation my wife and I had when we met. She said I should not have been walking the alley behind my apartment with a small bb gun shooting at them because they had a right to be there. She wasn’t wrong. But neither was I. Fuck rats. Kill them all.
By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.