Gunpowder. The room smelled of gunpowder among other combustible chemicals sacs of buckshot, messily piled up along the desk & spilling out onto the floor, there to trip the unweary visitor. The black powder-scented air covered the room & made a fine black dust settling over the Federal Shotgun shells & the shell-making machine. On the bed, the unused, unmade, old tired bed, were his tools, the AB-10, the uzi lying there in hibernation. Back on the desk, as I swept the 9mm bullets and magazines onto the floor, I found, among the chemical stains & burn marks, an ancient photo album, open to pages of people at the beach. These people were in the midst of a vacation I presumed. A time of happiness. Yet, on these pictures, a withered black X thru some people's faces. The scent of ammonia and gunpowder overwhelmed me, as I went to a window to let some air and light into the dark, abandoned room. The blinds didn't work, so old, and I eventually cut them down with a large knife, one I found sitting by the bed, set as to guard the room almost. There was dried blood along the tip of the blade. Bombs caked over gallons of deep rock & the canned goods, stockpiles of green beans, chile, soup, beer, and corn.