The pistol was cocked, ready to go. There were angels on my lawn. Dirty, foul things. They pecked at my roses, tearing at them with their claws. They left shit and mud stained feathers all over the lawn. They peed on everything.

I'd tried that new Angel B Gone spray but it only made them frisky. A few started having sex on my lawn. My Jem had to get out the garden hose to chase them away.

I'd tried to trap them. I bought great big cages from the hardware store and pieces of cheese to lure them in. They figured it out pretty fast. One would spring the trap, the other would get the cheese. People say they're stupid but they're not.

So I was left with one option. It's not humane. Some would call it murder. Those picketing for angel's rights would call me a monster. But I miss my pretty lawn. I miss my garden gnomes the bastards ripped the heads off of.

My gun was cocked and loaded. There were angels on my lawn.