Ergo, the Ogre

Welcome to the daily Three Things Challenge.
Use your imagination and creativity using one, two or all three words that may or may not be related. There are no restrictions regarding length, style, or genre, though please keep it family friendly.

Tag your responses with 3TC, #threethingschallenge or TTC, and you can add my logo if you wish.

Looking forward to reading your responses.

Your final three words for this week are:
MURDER
KILLING
ACCIDENT

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Jim-Ed poured his first cup of coffee and looked out the window. Just as he moved the yellow checkered curtain, a murder of crows landed in his corn field.

“Gosh dang those darn birds!” If I had my gun, I’d — Oh hell! Their eatin’ my damn corn down to the cob. Them dirty black bastards!”

“What are you on about now, Jim-Ed?” His wife, Donna-Jean came down the stairs, still tying her pink bathrobe.

“Lookit them dadgum birds, Donna Jean! They’re killin’ us!”

“Oh, fer Cripe sakes.” Donna Jean walked out the door and began shoo-ing them away.” They ascended the cornfield as soon as they saw her.

“Next problem?” Donna Jean asked as she came back inside. “Jim-Ed. them crows don’t eat enough to make a difference. This farm’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket anyhow.” Donna Jean poured herself some coffee.

“Aw, don’t say that. I know we can make it!”

She rolled her eyes.

“It sure would help me some if you’d gimme back my shotgun.” Jim Ed whined. “Honey, will ya?”

“I reckon.” Donna Jean started up the stairs. “But you’re only gettin’ five bullets a day.”

That’s plenty. He grinned to himself. Yep, that’s plenty.

Jim-Ed parked himself on the front porch and watched his corn grow. Now that he had his gun, there wasn’t a crow in sight.” Dadgum figures.

Soon, he became bored and started playing with his gun. He wondered how long he could hold the gun steady if he propped it up with the butt on the floor and the barrel beneath his chin.

He counted off, 1, 2, 3,4 … Then the gun started to slip so he grabbed it before it fell, not paying attention to where he was grabbing.

He’d grabbed the trigger.

When Donna Jean came home from the market, she looked around at all the blood, chunks, and brain tissue. Then she saw her husband’s limp, headless body. Shaking her head, she mumbled, “Musta been some kind o’ accident.”