That

… was in fact Daniel Willards; The Wooz as he preferred to be called. The Big Woozat was frozen in place, still squatting in front of Kwik Trip’s front door. His eyes were open wide. The display inside had come to a screeching halt. The young man lying in his boxers was glaring at him through the glass while slowly gritting his teeth. It was obvious he was trying to reanalyze the situation.

The Wooz knew in any other situation this young man and his troubled appearance would have done nothing to him but evoke laughter. But he was frozen. There was a look of desperation behind the young man’s eyes. It was not sympathetic, but a dangerous nervousness that could and most likely would, the Wooz thought eyeing the Berretta, lead to a drastic and violent conclusion.

Presently, a deafening shot rang through the air. Thin pieces of plaster floated down from a small jagged hole in the ceiling. Everyone turned to see the Kwik Trip employee sitting cross legged on the floor where the Beretta once lay, which was now pointed towards the ceiling in Bobby’s right hand. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the small paper hat that had once sat atop his podgy skull and puffed and wheezed, fighting to recuperate from the struggle.

“Well, he seems to have everything under control,” the Wooz whispered to himself, and slowly began to stand, picking up Roscoe and tucking the dog under his left arm.