Gloves

He walked towards the house. Cigar in one hand, briefcase in another, he strode. It was 3 in the morning, and there was no one around. The house was only surrounded by lawn; perfectly trimmed grass, for miles around. A road passed about 50 yards from the house, yet a car hadn't traveled across it for days. He approached the house, slowly, feeling the grass. He stopped in front of the stairs that brought to the front door. The house was rather small, 2 stories high. It had stairs leading up to it, yet only so people would know where the door was when the grass grew too high. He looked through the window. He saw his reflection. A middle aged man. Blue eyes, dark hair. His hair glistened in the moonlight. He looked down at the bed in the room at the small boy that lay in his bed. Snug with his teddy bear, he felt his heart warm. For a second.
He lit a match. He moved it towards his cigar. One puff. He shook it, to put out the fire. And threw it to the ground.
He opened his briefcase. He took out a small flask of kerosene. Pouring it onto the house, he lit another match. Slowly, it catches. All around the house, the hellish fire grew. Down in flames came the house. He lived to see this fine spectacle. He puffed his cigar. The smoke of his cigar went up with the smoke of the house. He looked back through the window. The boy was still asleep. Sleep young one, sleep forever, he thought, taking another puff from his cigar. He clapped his hands together. Job well done. The flames still grew. The roof caved in, after burning for much time. He stepped back, as to not dirty his shoes. He looked up. The flaming remains of the house lay on the ground, as they continued to give off light. The smoke covered the moon. A full moon. A wonderful night to die.
He turned to look at where the other light was coming from. He checked his watch. 3:54 am. Perfect. Dawn was an hour away. He had all the time. Yet before he could leave, the light in the distance grew brighter and closer. Then he saw. There was not one light, but two. The sounds of the engine as it sped towards him. He shook his small flask of kerosene. A couple drops left. Just enough to burn something else.
He walked towards the lights. He held up his flask, calling out his victory. A shot came from the car. The flask was knocked back into the fire. It roared.
Fear overcame him. He had no weapon to which to fend this person off. And he knew that this man was out to get him. He looked. The car sped closer. As it reached the lawn, he started running backwards. He looked around. He couldn't use any burning wood, it would be hopeless. He would burn himself before he could do anything. He fell flat on his back. He looked up. The sky and the stars and the moon looked back down at him. He looked towards the car.
It stopped, a few paces from where he was laying. He decided to give up all hope. He decided to die. He looked up again at the sky. But he didn't see it. The last thing he saw was a pair of black gloves, closing in on his throat. The cigar fell from his mouth, only to be picked up by the glove, and smoked once more.