Skunk

The place was really jumping tonight. A crash resounded somewhere back the way he'd come, eliciting a squinched expression the likes of which equal, "Jeez! Why not just use a bullhorn!"

It didn't last long.

The look of consternation became a mix of nausea and memory-shuffling. A nasty odor smacked him upside the nose, went in, played a game of parcheesi and finally reminded him.

"Oh crap! Not another one!" he execrated under and over his breath. His gun, having been on a tea break in his hand, suddenly became animated as if peering straight through the racks and obstacles for a target it thought needed some additional lead in its diet.

His mind wondered where the thing was, figuring it couldn't be far if it stank this badly through the deluge.

His mind told itself to stop trying to scare it.

It didn't cooperate.

"***k!"

Short. Sweet. Skunky.