d10 [a story] (for 4-7-06)

I lie in my bed looking at the ceiling as morning-light bounced against the walls on my face. Arguing out in the hall kept my eyes open in the early morning (it was probably around 10 am, early enough). My specialized Glock pistol lay under the pillow which rested under my head. I sighed heavily and heard the shower running from across the hall, the door was probably opened and struggling ensued or something of the sort. "Luna and Roland are at it again," I thought to myself. I turned on my side facing the side of the room with the door and I placed my arm under the pillow placing my fingers over the Glock. I delved deep into myself thinking about what I should do with a few unpleasant individuals, one of which has taken a very upsetting interest in me. These mornings alone are never as productive as I imagined they would be originally. We truly aren't professionals, but we aren't amateurs either. Or are we?