this is no time for an orgy

it really isn't. there's a man in a suit and tie at the door, the pizza box reflected in dark glasses that seem a natural part of him even at this ungodly hour. i feel like my eyeball's filling the peephole, as i roll it around to look him up and down. i don't see any weapons, but the box might not contain pizza. he almost looks disinterested.

almost.

i turn to look at my partner, who's half-crouching, half-standing over the petite blonde he'd brought's form. the surprise of the doorbell has turned the evening into a caricature: the soft divans, the candles, the sexy music and the bottles of lubricants all spread around the luxurious apartment now frame a scene of confusion. some of the guests have stopped their thrashing and thrusting, staring at mary and me and waiting for a signal: what's it time for? fuck or flight? the smell of tension mixes with those of sex and incense.

"did you order pizza?"
the faint snort and half a smile are enough of a signal; it sure feels like a friday night with the mitchells, all right.

i silently slide open the drawer next to the door, pull out the small pistol, my first line of defense, and ensure that the safety's on before throwing it to my wife. she resolutely slides off alan, who looks like he was losing his erection anyway, to catch it gracefully and take her place behind the bookshelf. alan reaches under the cushion next to him and i hear the comforting click of his magnum 44. i quickly grab two glocks from another shelf, and with nods and stares direct the others to get into position or take cover in the kitchen.

i grab the handle and smartly step back, opening the door into a whole other movie.