John sat stiffly at the kitchen table staring at the staticky radio waiting, like everyone else in the German village of Jelm, to hear the name of the person who had won Jelm's first, and only, lottery. Behind him, the open kitchen window showed the crammed town square where many of the village's citizens stared silently up at the giant speakers that had been erected expressly for this special occasion.

John glanced nervously at his old watch; he tugged at its frayed leather strap to keep it from slipping down his arm. It had belonged to his father. It was the only keepsake he had from the man whom he’d been named after, and that name, as unlikely as it seemed, might be read any second now.

"Any second now," he said to the radio. Suddenly, the radio went silent. John held his breath waiting to hear the name.

"John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt," the voice on the radio said before being replaced with the familiar static.

John sat at the table stunned. "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt," he repeated in a hushed voice. "But his name is my name too," he said in disbelief.

Frightened, John violently pushed away from the table--knocking over the chair in the process. He reached under the table and produced the shotgun and small bag he had stored there in the unlikely chance his name was called. He ran to the front door and flung it open. The town's villagers had crowded around his doorway and were now staring at him with a venomous look on their collective faces.

Before they could react, John pumped the shotgun once and fired into the crowd. He slammed the door and bolted it. He heard his kitchen window break as he ran though the cottage and out the backdoor. He sprinted through his garden, trampling the cabbages and potatoes that he loved so much, until he reached the stone wall that surrounded his yard. He hopped over it as the villagers swarmed into the backyard from inside his home.

He jogged over to his motorcycle, which he had parked there the previous night, and fired it up. It roared to life as he zoomed through the alleyway. He emerged onto Main Street and headed towards the bridge--it was the only way out of the village.

He slowed down as he approached. He realized that villagers had correctly predicted he would head there because dozens of armed villagers blocked his way. He came to a stop.

“No more running, John,” one of them snarled.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he reached into his bag and produced a grenade. He held it up to show them what it was then pulled the pin and lobbed it their direction.  

The villagers, who could, flung themselves from the bridge into the water. Those that couldn’t were hit by the explosion of the grenade.

One such unlucky villager shouted in agony, "There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt," as he watched the motorcycle disappear over the bridge.