Barefoot in the Bermuda grass the soft blades pressed between our fourteen year old toes, Steve spots a bird on the neighbor’s chimney. “Alex” he exclaims, “Let me take a shot!” I glance down at my scoped pellet rifle already primed with ten bird killing pumps. I glance at him, seeing the death festering in the depths of his eyes. His broad smile attempting to deceive me of his baleful intentions. “No” I say, “I’m taking it.” I raise the butt of the stock to my shoulder and gaze at the amplified image of my target. He seems so peaceful and unaware of the danger waiting to exit the end of my barrel, in the ultimate expression of human cruelty and teenage stupidity. My finger goes to the trigger, I inhale, aim for the mortar beneath the top brick of the chimney and squeeze. There is a puffing sound as the rifle’s air is released, propelling the pellet straight into the mortar. We hear a whack as a piece of the mortar flies off scaring the bird away. I suppress a smile as I turn to Steve and say “Damn, I missed! I’m bored of this, let’s go ride bikes.” “Ok” he says. As we walk into the house, I glance over my shoulder at let the smile escape.