This Isn't Right At All

"Drop the weapon, sir," the Secret Service agent ordered, gun in hand pointed at Chris Themum. Chris frantically waved his pruning shears around, squeezing and relaxing them threateningly to keep the approaching agent at a distance. How in hell did my little White House vegetable heist escalate to this level? he wondered. "How about you let me go and we call it even?" Chris tried to negotiate. Without a change in his implacable pace, the agent drew closer and repeated, "Drop the weapon, sir, now!"

Chris, eyes darting around looking for means of escape, threw some of the spinach and lettuce he had collected in the agent's eyes to distract him and took off toward the west gate. Heart pumping and jumping into his throat as he dashed toward the road, Chris felt a sudden pinching bite in his shoulder. He jerked and stumbled, confused, but he kept on going toward the gate, arm numb and limp at his side. The gate was locked. Screaming in panicked rage, Chris dropped the pruning shears from his working hand and tried to climb the metal bars of the gate. A quick bark of noise, followed by another, echoed through the side yard. Chris felt as if he had been hit by a bus. Numb, slow, and a bit shaky, he stop trying to climb the fence. He looked down at his chest. His hoody had holes in it and was wet with something dark. Chris never learned what that was--the agent tackled him from behind, bringing him to the ground next to the gate, where Chris died seconds later.

Or, that's what I imagine happened here. I can't begin to surmise why else one would be so cruel to a mum, despite their annoying prevalence in autumn. This one was near a fence directly west of the White House.

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