Why Does the Car Always Break Down?

We were finally making progress, after brewing a half-pot of coffee and forcing Angie to drink it. Of course, it was cut by a few ice cubes to avoid a severely-burnt throat. She, and most of us, were in the post-drinking stupor - that special place where you are not hung over, but your brain doesn't seem to cooperate normally.
While feeding Angie the strong, "Local Coffee Shop presents 'Ethiopian Coffee,'" we watched the news.
All the major news organizations were on the story. Whenever a few Americans are killed, everyone shows up. I wouldn't have been surprised to see champagne in the news trailers, celebrating a brand new tragedy.
In the hour we watched, the news story had gone from "The Minneapolis Massacre" to "Terror Attack in the Homeland." The world of instant information had provided enough information, via text, phone, and email, to inform them that the tragedy was caused by biological warfare. Willy seemed to have a confused look on his face the whole time.
We learned from the constantly-updated news that the virus had spread to the edges of Minneapolis and was infecting the suburbs. I secretly gave a high-five to Kate.
"I'm not a terrorist. Am I?" Willy asked.
I replied "You are now, buddy. But, it's okay. It was well-intended."
He looked from the TV to me. "Do you still have your guns here?"
I rolled my eyes. "Of course. I can even carry them legally! Well, maybe not the sword."
Willy stood up with a flourish. "Judging by the circumstances, I think it's all legal now!"
I mirrored his extravagant rise. "Wait here!"
I ran up the stairs to my room. I had always made it a habit to keep my two guns -a .38 special and a 9mm semi-auto- always loaded, and with enough ammo to make sure I could shoot for hours without a trip to Wal-Mart.
I grabbed both the guns and their holsters, packed a bag with all the ammo I had, and grabbed my custom-made Samurai sword off the wall.
I got back to the couch and sat down, guns and all. "I get the nine. Who wants the other pistol?"
Angie raised her hand first. "Me!!"
Kate saw the lengthy bulge, protruding from the backpack I had on my lap. "Is that THE sword? I call that!!!"
I pulled it out and handed it over. After all, she had single-handedly invented hobo-fencing. Most of the hobos didn't agree, but they all had defended admirably.
Willy put his hands out with a gesture of confusion. "What do I get?"
I replied. "Well, you should have bought that shotgun when you had the chance." It was a reference to a 3:00 am trip to our favorite Wal-Mart, where he decided to buy a stereo instead of a shotgun. We never actually thought it would come in handy.
"Hey, you have a shotgun!" He retorted.
I hadn't really thought about it. My dad had given it to me in his will, a year before he died.
"It won't help. I don't have any shells for it."
"We'll find some. I'd bet that the neighbor above us has tons of various shells."
He was right.
We had only talked to Johnny twice, and both times he had told us some highly-irrelevant story about Vietnam. Based on his anti-government talk, we had all assumed he had a small arsenal in his apartment.