Son of Guerilla Writing
Tyler looked up from his book, appalled. "Jennifer Graciella Mutungi, what the ding-dong-hey's goin' on out there? I told you, I have to concentrate in here!"

The jumbled sounds of metal and plastic bangs and thumps stopped. Heavy bootsteps on hardwood tromped towards the bathroom door. Towards Tyler.

"Jenny?"

No answer.

Tyler wished his trousers weren't around his ankles. Wished that there were some way to see outside. Wished, insanely, that his apartment's bathroom doors had more locks than the measly little latch.

The bootsteps stopped just outside the door. Tyler strained to hear something. Anything. He heard the faint sound of a metal click.

Tyler. Slammed His Book. Shut. Reached For The Plunger. Raised It Just As -

The bathroom door was kicked in. A small shower of wood splinters and metal pelted Tyler as he charged blindly at the door, swinging the plunger at chest height. His ankles caught on his pants, and he stumbled and fell.

Gunshot.