Flying Missiles - Drabble #2
"Murdoch Lancer, get out of my kitchen!"
Moving with alacrity, the patriarch fled the swinging mop.
Snickering with glee, the Lancer Brothers hooted at their father's precipitate departure.
Straightening himself with dignity, the tall man protested, "How did I know she was mopping?"
The gunfighter nudged his brother. "That little girl swings a mean mop."
"You should know, Johnny," tsked the blond. "She was after you last week."
"Yeah, I figure she swings a mop by day and rides a broomstick at night!"
Silence reigned as a soapy sponge soared through the air, thwopping the dark head with unerring accuracy.