Cellar Door

A psychopath who believes in dental hygiene, was all Paul could thnik. And then a big grin crossed his face. Danger was about to begin. He loved the adrenalin rush that came with the thrill of the kill. He waited a moment longer than he should have, but he wanted this slime ball to know it was coming. He wanted him to have a moment to think about it.
The man looked at Paul with only a slight hesitation, as if it had to sink in that a stranger was standing in the hallway holding a weapon. Then his mouth opened. Saliva and toothpaste ran down his chin, and the toothbrush fell to the floor. He started to yell something, probably a warning---but it wasn’t necessary.
Paul would send the warning for him. With the cigar in his mouth sending white smoke toward the ceiling and both hands on the shootgun and with great anticipation, he pulled the trigger. A loud explosion erupted from the barrel. The close-packed shotgun pellets tore into the man’s chest with such force it slammed him backwards, and the weight of his body broke down the bathroom door. They both fell into the small room, until the top of the door hit the sink. The man bounced a few times against the inclined door, then lie still with an unnatural glaze in his open eyes. The blood was everywhere. It looked like Picasso had painted a bathroom, then splattered red paint all over the picture. Another rendition of that modern are shit, thought Paul.