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My               birth               wasn't               as               celebrated               as               a               human               birth.

There               was               no               shower.

There               was               no               jumping               for               joy               or               hard               sigh               of               relief.

Nor               did               I               fall               bloody               and               sticky               from               a               gaping               female               crevice               to               be               caught               by               a               man               in               all               matching               clothes.

There               was               equally               no               great               pain               or               regret               caused               by               my               birth.

I'm               not               complaining               about               this,               I'm               just               stating               facts.

I               simply               happened.

I               was               simply               manufactured               successfully.

Built,               tested,               shipped.

Short               hoorah.

Mission               accomplished.

Like               you               though,               I               took               traits               from               those               who               made               me,               like               you               may               have               your               mother's               brown               eyes               and               your               father's               drinking               problem,               or               you               may               have               your               grandmother's               short               fingers               and               your               grandfather's               receding               hairline.

I               have               my               mother's               factory-grade               function               and               efficiency.

I               breathe               it.

I               do               exactly               what               my               wielder               makes               me               do,               just               like               the               machines               that               made               me               did,               and               the               machines               that               made               them,               and               the               machines               that               made               them.

Like               the               workers               who               run               those               machines,               I               fit               my               given               role-when               I               am               told,               how               I               am               told,               when               I               am               told.

I               may               and               often               do               think               differently               than               I               do,               but               I               do               anyway.

Because               I               think               but               do               not               act               freely,               just               like               my               father               the               assembly               line               worker.

I               am               a               product               of               mechanical               coquitos.

At               birth,               the               doctor               slapped               you               into               tears.

Your               lungs               filled               with               oxygen.

After               my               assembly,               I               was               slapped               awake               on               a               firing               range.

I               breathed               out               spent               gunpowder.

You               learn               and               grow;               I               learn               and               yearn.


               From               what               I               have               learned               of               pleasure,               I               enjoyed               my               time               at               Pauly's               Pawn               and               Gun               Shop.

There               was               something               "uniquely               American               about               small               time               capitalism               in               its               purest               form-you               could               trade               your               life               in               for               the               cash               to               buy               a               new               one,               or               buy               a               gun               to               shoot               what               you               believe               in,"               as               Paul               would               say               on               a               regular               basis,               "my               shop               alone               covers               the               first               few               amendments,               plus               a               few               that               didn't               make               it               into               the               constitution."               It               was               what               I               knew               to               be               a               typical               pawn               shop.

There               were               new               and               used               handguns               behind               locked               glass               cases.

It's               one               of               these               cases               I               would               call               my               home               for               an               uncountable               amount               of               time.

My               room-mates               were               a               .38               Super               (automatic),               a               .48               Long               Colt               and               a               1986               Colt               Python.

The               .38               and               the               .48               came               in               packages               near               the               same               time               I               did.

Our               firing               pins               came               days               later               resting               in               beds               of               Styrofoam               peanuts.

It's               illegal               to               send               us               ready               to               fire.

The               Python               had               been               there               a               while.

One               wall               was               filled               with               guitars,               one               with               televisions-from               wide               screened               to               wide               width-wise,               another               wall               had               shelves               full               of               electronics               that               could               be               plugged               in               and               tested               at               will,               and               the               center               of               the               pawn               shop               was               unfilled               for               walk-ability.

The               furnishings               tastefully               reeked               of               bare-minimum.

Besides               objects               with               for-sale               tags,               there               was               a               tattered               American               flag               hanging               on               the               wall               behind               Paul's               register.

There               were               also               numerous               tin               signs               posted               that               said:               Shoplifters               will               be               shot.

Cash               only.

And               NO               TWEAKERS.

Another               said:Hippies               use               back               door.

(Seriously)               
               Paul               was               a               husky               well-built               man               in               his               mid-forties;               he               had               a               square               jaw               and               square               shoulders               and               he               had               square               framed               glasses               that               usually               hung               by               a               chain               around               his               neck.

If               I               were               to               judge               him               solely               on               appearance,               everything               about               him               pointed               at               square.

I               assumed               (like               everything               I               assumed               at               first)               that               my               stay               here               would               be               cold               and               mechanical,               like:               
               FedEx               Priority               Overnight.


               Or               Colt               .38               Special.


               The               door               jingled               open               and               jingled               closed               and               footsteps               plodded               toward               Paul.

World               Poker               Champion               Mark               McKnight               was               muted.

His               spot-on               brilliant               technique               showed               through               his               silence.


               "Hi,               how's               it               going?"               the               man               asked               as               he               wobbled               from               case               to               case,               eyeing               the               guns.

His               voice               was               raspy,               aged,               deep-a               smoker               maybe.

He               was               a               short               chubby               man,               thick               sideburns               that               met               a               scraggly               brown               beard               and               arms               that               an               artist               might               call               too               short               for               his               body.

He               had               a               green               backpack               hanging               over               one               shoulder.


               "Pretty               damn               good               in               here,               how               about               yourself?"               Paul               replied.

He               was               eating               French               fries               with               ranch               off               an               increasingly               transparent               paper               plate.

Like               any               true               American,               Paul               liked               everything               deep-fried               and               drowning               in               ranch.


               "Okay,"               the               man               sighed,               "well               horrible               to               tell               you               the               truth,               but               I'll               spare               you               my               life               story.

I'm               tryin'               to               get               a               gun-a               handgun-just               have               a               few               bucks               on               hand               and               a               few               things               I               could               trade."               
               "Few               dollars,               a               few               things?

What               are               we               talkin'               here               a               Wal-mart               watch               and               a               few               Lincolns               or               what?"               He               stuffed               a               handful               of               dripping               fries               into               his               mouth.

Speckles               of               ranch               decorated               our               case.


               The               man               forced               a               laugh.

"No,               I               have               a               Panasonic-ah...

3X               zoom-all               I               really               know               about               it."               He               unshouldered               his               backpack               and               started               rifling               through               it.

Then               pulled               a               bulky               camera               from               it               and               placed               it               front               of               Paul.

He               grinned               awkwardly,               "I               paid               a               fortune               for               it               three               years               ago,               but               it's               probably               not               worth               much               now."               His               second               chin               frowned.


               "Probably               not."               He               put               on               his               glasses               to               examine               the               camera.


               "-and               I               have               a               hundred               and               ten               dollars               that               I'm               not               trying               to               spend               all               of."               
               "Okay               okay.

What               kinda'               gun               do               you               have               in               mind?"               Paul               asked.


               "I               just               want               something               cheap               and               reliable,               won't               lock               up               on               me               if               I               get               surprised               at               night               by               some               droolin'               junkie."               
               "Well               cheap               and               reliable               are               two               very               different               things-which               one               do               you               want?"               
               The               man               sighed               deep               and               long               stroking               his               beard               in               frustration.

He               crossed               his               arms               across               his               chest,               scanned               the               cases               directionlessly               for               clues.


               Paul               was               a               good               man               and               an               even               better               business               man.


               "I               want               something               cheap,"               he               said,               "Fire.

Boom.

Make               bad               people               go               away."               
               Damn,               I               thought               I               might               be               going               home               with               this               guy-though               I'm               not               sure               why               I               wanted               to               so               badly.

I               didn't               know               him               and               I               did               like               it               here.

I               guess               the               excitement               of               being               owned               was               becoming               just               too               much               to               bear.

Being               for               sale               wasn't               enough.

I               needed               an               owner               who               would               clean               me               and               love               me               and               fire               me.

I               vented               my               frustration               to               my               fellow               handguns.


               The               Python               hissed               at               me.

He               told               me               not               to               be               so               anxious.

He               told               me               lust               for               the               unknown               was               a               blind               man               prematurely               ejaculating.

I               didn't               know               what               that               meant,               but               the               Python               was               much               older               than               I,               and               I               had               no               reason               to               believe               wisdom               didn't               come               with               age.

He               was               a               bit               more               high-end               than               me               and               had               sat               there               for               four               years.

He'd               floated               around               random               auctions,               gun               shows               and               part-time               and               long-term               owners               before               then.


               Bitter               gun               orphan.


               He               said               he               probably               would               never               leave               this               pawn               shop.

Paul               was               in               love               probably               (or               so               the               Python               said).

Paul               wouldn't               budge               on               the               price               for               him,               wouldn't               trade               either.
               You're               inpatient               now?

Wait               until               you               spend               twelve               years               in               cold,               dark,               silence               with               nothing               but               your               thoughts.

The               first               few               days               are               miserable,               after               the               first               month               the               time               just               flies               by               for               a               while,               and               then               it               goes               back               to               being               unbearable.

Years               in               confinement               do               a               loop               around,               easy,               unbearably,               easy               .

Year               after               year               after               year               after               year               after               year               of               the               same.

The               same.

The               exact               fucking               same.

When               you               add               up               all               the               years               it's               never               worth               it.

You               want               to               go               home?

You               don't               know               what               home               is               yet.
               That               can't               be               what               everyone               experiences.
               It               doesn't               differ               too               much.

Maybe               you'll               go               home               to               someone               who               goes               out               and               target               practices.

Maybe.

Just               remember               that               most               people               have               lives.

Working,               schooling,               dog               walking,               eating,               drinking,               fucking,               fishing,               knitting,               reading,               fighting,               dreaming,               jogging,               going               to               movies,               traveling...living.

Ninety-nine               point               nine               percent               of               what               people               fill               that               great               space               between               their               birth               and               death,               does               not               involve               shooting               a               gun.
               I               thought               that               pink               .22               was               a               drama               queen               ,               the               long               colt               chimed               in.

Jesus.

You               sir,               need               to               lighten               up               a               little.

Look               toward               the               future               ahead!

Anything               can               happen.


               Wait               until               twelve               years               in               complete               silence.

I               dreamt               for               anything               to               interrupt               the               silence.

I               wanted               the               house               to               be               burn               down.

I               wanted               to               be               sold               or               stolen.

I               wanted               to               be               used               in               a               suicide-at               least               an               evidence               locker               would               have               some               interesting               objects               to               talk               to.


               The               door               jingled               shut.
               Paul               was               filled               with               tid-bids               of               simple               wisdom               which               he               liked               to               sum               up               in               three-word               stories.

Three               word               stories               are               exactly               what               they               sound               like:               an               observation,               insight,               or               opinion-               a               description               about               something               in               only               three               words.

It               was               Paul's               little               attempt               at               keeping               some               semblance               of               control               over               the               world               he               deemed:               
               Too-nuts               for               Trail-Mix.


               That's               a               poor               example               of               one               of               his               three               word               stories,               as               it               could               be               argued               that               "too-nuts"               is               two               words,               but               that               was               because               the               world               was               too               crazy               too               be               summed               up               in               a               three               word               story.

That's               what               Paul's               TV               reiterated.

The               world               was               crazy               and               out               of               control,               the               television               said.

But               the               TV               wasn't               usually               on               the               news.

It               was               usually               on               the               History               Channel,               Discovery,               Poker               or               a               myriad               of               random               adapted-to-television               movies               and               TV               shows.
               Five               months               passed               by.

Many               potential               owners               passed               in               and               out.

Some               held               me.

Some               aimed               me               at               the               wall               with               one               eye               up               to               my               sights.

One               guy               even               went               to               the               ATM               for               money,               came               back               with               thirty               dollars               less               then               I               had               cost.

Paul               hadn't               budged.
               The               door               jingled               open.

Heavy               footsteps               wandered               the               pawn               shop               for               a               bit               and               then               were               followed               by               a               deep               voice,               "Can               I               look               at               that               one?"               
               "You're               quick               for               an               old               man               aren't               you?"               
               "I               ain't               old,               you're               just               young               in               comparison.

Now               you               going               to               show               it               to               me               or               ain't               you?"               
               "Sure               sure,               I'm               just               givin'               you               a               hard               time-that's               mostly               all               I               do."               
               His               key               jingled               just               outside               our               case.


               "Well               that's               a               bit               more               than               I               do               these               days               anyway,"               he               said.


               "Ahhh,               you               got               your               eyes               on               the               Colt               case..."               
               Paul's               wiry               hands               reached               for               the               Python.

"This               one?"               
               "Yes,               that's               the               one."               
               I               said               bye               to               the               Python.


               I'm               not               going               anywhere,               the               Python               hissed.


               Have               some               faith               you               negative               Nancy,               said               the               .38               Super.


               "She's               a               beauty               isn't               she?"               Paul's               voice               trailed               off.


               He!

Isn't               he?

The               Python               corrected.


               "I'm               not               lookin'               to               spend               more               than               six               hundred."               The               old               man               trained               the               Python               on               the               wall               of               televisions.


               "Well..."               Paul               sported               his               honest               disappointment               grin               which               tastefully               showed               some               teeth,               but               was               careful               not               to               appear               to               be               smiling.

"Sorry,               pal,               this               girl               is               a               bit               out               of               your               price               range."               
               "That's               a               shame,"               the               old               man               lowered               the               gun               and               placed               it               on               the               glass               above               me.


               Paul               laughed               and               sat               the               Python               back               next               to               me.

"What               kind               of               gun               are               you               looking               for?"               
               "I               love               the               types               of               guns               in               this               case."               He               pointed               wrinkled               finger               at               us,               "The               old               west               style,"               he               laughed,               drawing               his               hands               to               his               sides               and               crouching,               pulling               imaginary               guns               from               imaginary               holsters.

"               They               remind               me               of               my               father.

We               used               to               watch               westerns               before               he               passed."               
               Paul               smiled               wide               and               looked               as               if               he               were               about               to               speak,               but               he               didn't.


               "As               they               say,               you               can               kill               the               man,               but               you               can               never               kill               the               cowboy,"               Barnes'               broke               the               silence,               following               it               with               a               wink               and               tip               of               an               imaginary               cowboy               hat.


               The               old               man               scanned               us               with               his               old               wise               blue               eyes.

The               old               man               was               about               five               foot               six               and               had               thin               wispy               grey               to               white               hair.

His               weathered               features               had               once               been               strong               and               handsome,               but               were               now               interrupted               by               a               mountain               range               of               wrinkles,               most               of               which               were               smile               lines.

He               had               a               big               nose               and               ears.

The               Discovery               Channel               had               told               me               that               these               were               the               only               human               body               parts               that               grew               until               death.


               "May               I               look               at               that               one?"               He               pointed               in               my               vicinity.


               Is               he               pointing               at               me?

I               asked               my               room-mates.


               "Thee-ah-.38               Special?"               Paul               pointing               at               me,               too.


               "Yes               sir,               that's               the               one."               
               This               guy               feels               like               the               one,               said               the               .48.


               Keep               it               real               out               there,               wished               the               .38               Super,               maybe               we'll               cross               paths               again.


               Hey               bud,               said               the               Python.


               Yes?

Paul               was               lifting               me               out               of               the               case               as               I               spoke.


               Rust               and               die,               prick.


               The               old               man               gripped               me               firmly               in               his               hands,               rocked               me               up               and               down,               weighing               me.

He               ran               his               fingers               along               my               rosewood               handle.

Along               my               chrome               finish.

He               trained               me               on               the               muted               Asian               news-girl               who               had               been               saying               nothing               on               the               television,               "Why               sir,               if               I               ain't               mistaken,"               The               old               man               lowered               me,               "               I               think               I               may               be               in               love."               Raised               an               eyebrow               in               Paul's               direction.


               I               love               you,               too.

Or               love               how               I               knew               it               from               cable               television,               anyways.


               There               was               a               pause               amongst               all               of               us.

It               must               have               been               three               minutes,               but               seemed               to               last               forever.


               "I'll               take               it."               The               old               man               finally               announced.


               "Are               you               sure?"               Paul               tested               the               man.


               "Sir,               I               have               only               been               this               sure               of               anything               twice               in               my               whole               life,"               he               smiled,               "when               I               married               my               first               wife               and               then               again               when               I               married               my               second."               
               They               shared               laughs               and               small               talk               for               a               moment               before               getting               down               to               business.


               "I               just               have               some               papers               for               you               to               sign.

FBI               background               check-fun               stuff               like               that.

You               won't               have               a               problem,"               Paul               left               to               the               back               office               and               returned               with               a               clipboard               with               a               pen               dangling               from               a               string.

It               was               full               of               different               colored               forms.


               The               old               man               gripped               the               pen               firmly               with               precision               against               the               top               paper,               studied               it,               "where?"               his               eyes               darted               around               the               page.


               "Oh               sorry-next               to               the               'X's,"               Paul               pointed.


               He               flipped               through               the               papers               rigorously,               signing               and               flipping.

When               he               was               finished               he               handed               it               to               Paul.


               "Well               congratulations--"               he               examined               the               clipboard               for               a               name,               "Barney               J.

Jones,               you               have               just               purchased               a               fine               piece               of               machinery."               He               stuck               his               hand               out               to               shake.


               "Friends               call               me               Barnes,"               he               gripped               Paul's               hand               solidly               and               they               shook               right               over               the               top               of               me.


               "My               friend's               call               me               Paul...

My               mom               calls               me               Pauly,"               he               laughed               and               let               go               of               his               hand,               "there's               a               one               week               waiting               period."
               My               new               home               was               a               seven               by               four               foot               gun               case               with               stained               cedar               siding               and               a               lockable               glass               door               that               hung               on               gold-painted               hinges.

I               was               hung               with               a               twist-tie               to               a               hook               inside               this               case               alongside               a               gun               who               didn't               talk.

He               was               an               old               musket               layered               in               a               heavy               blanket               of               dust.

His               handle               was               splintered               and               riddled               with               cracks.

The               old               musket               had               no               trigger               and               his               barrel               was               spotted               with               rust.

He               had               no               marks               to               clue               me               into               his               age,               brand               or               model.

I               didn't               know               if               he               was               dead               or               had               run               out               of               things               to               say.
               Barnes'               grandson               Danny               looked               to               be               about               thirteen               when               we               went               out               shooting               the               first               time.

He               was               short               then,               with               a               galaxy               of               freckles               stretching               the               expanse               of               his               face.

He               had               mischievous               and               curious               green               eyes               that               danced               and               sparkled               when               he               spoke.

He               had               long               dirty               blonde               hair               that               he               brushed               out               of               his               eyes               with               his               left               hand               as               he               trained               me               on               an               old               busted               television               set.

It               was               one               of               the               ancient               ones               with               wood               panels               and               a               giant               black               knob               to               flip               through               channels               with.

Danny               squinted,               trying               to               see               through               his               hair               and               through               my               rear               sight.

His               breath               was               warm               on               my               hammer.
               "Now,               take               as               much               time               as               you               need.

Make               sure               your               feet               are               planted               solidly               or               the               kick               will               knock               you               over."
               "Is               it               gonna'               hurt               me?"               he               turned               to               ask               his               grandpa.
               "No               no,"               Barnes               comforted,               "this               gun               won't               kick               to               hard,               just               be               ready               for               it.

Son,               I'll               tell               you,               though,               the               guns               I               had               to               shoot               in               basic               training               knocked               me               right               on               my               ass.

I               was               a               tough               guy               too."
               Danny               shuffled               his               feet.

Widened               his               stance.

He               looked               back,               asked               again               with               his               eyes               for               assurance               this               wouldn't               hurt.
               "Good.

So               whenever               you               think               you're               ready,               take               the               safety               off,               aim,               and               press               firmly               down               on               the               trigger.

Breath               out               as               you               fire."               Barnes               instructed.
               Danny's               breathing               became               more               deliberate.

He               clicked               the               safety               off.
               Breathed               in.

Then               out.

No               fire.
               In.

Then               out.
               Then,               with               another               breath               in,               he               breathed               out               and               squeezed               my               trigger,               squeezed               his               eyes               shut.

The               bullet               grazed               the               top               right               side               of               the               television               sending               a               lightning               bolt               of               cracks               downward               across               the               screen.
               Barnes               cheered.

Clapped               his               hands               together               hysterically.
               "Good               shot!

Amazing               shot               Danny!"               He               grinned               and               gave               Danny               a               one               armed               hug.

Then               a               high-five.


               Danny               smiled,               lowered               me               to               face               the               gravel               and               broken               glass               and               garbage.


               "I               hit               it               I               hit               it!"               he               screamed               with               delayed               excitement.


               "You're               a               natural               Danny.

I               didn't               make               my               first               shot."               
               "Really?"               
               "I               didn't               make               my               first               few               shots,               actually."               
               Danny               handed               me,               barrel               facing               the               sky,               to               Barnes               and               I               was               pushed               downward               and               to               the               side.


               "Whoa               Danny-boy!

Always-always               point               the               gun               at               the               ground.

Hand               it               handle               first,               shooter               to               the               ground."
               "It's               outta'               bullets."               Danny               protested.
               "Doesn't               matter               Danny,               always               treat               a               gun               like               its               loaded.

Now               try               again."
               Danny               handed               me               back               to               Barnes,               handle               first,               barrel               to               the               ground.

Barnes               flipped               open               my               cylinder               revealing               three               live               bullets               in               the               chamber.
               "See,"               he               angled               the               cylinder               so               the               sun               could               shine               through               the               open               spaces,               "three               live               ones,               you               never               know."
               Danny               nodded,               respectfully               annoyed.
               "Can               you               go               set               up               some               bottles               for               me               to               hit?"
               "Yeah,               grandpa."               Danny               walked               around,               sifting               through               the               junk.

He               dumped               out               a               garbage               bag               near               a               soggy               mattress               stained               dark               brown               and               yellow               in               the               center.

Out               of               the               garbage               he               kicked               out               a               few               old               Corona               bottles               with               hairy               blackened               lemons               lodged               in               them.

He               propped               them               up               on               and               around               the               TV               set.
               The               old               man's               dark               eyes               fluttered               a               little,               "So               Danny,"               he               sighed,               "I               heard               you               got               in               a               little               bit               of               trouble               this               last               Friday?"               He               peered               at               Danny,               then               back               at               the               bottles.
               Danny               sighed               hard               in               frustration,               "dang               it               not               you               too               grandpa.

How'd               you               find               out?"
               "Your               mother               told               me."
               "It               wasn't               a               big               deal               or               nothin'.

They               just               made               mom               an'               me               an'               him               'n               his               mom               all               sit               down               and               talk               and               stuff.

He               walked               out               of               between               the               bottles               and               Barnes.

Looked               up               at               his               grandpa.
               "Was               this               boy               giving               you               grief?"
               Danny               shook               his               head               side               to               side.
               Barnes               lifted               me               up,               put               my               sights               on               the               faded               label               of               one               of               the               Corona               bottles,               "oh,               other               way               around               then?"               he               pulled               the               trigger,               breathed               out.

The               bottle               shattered.

I               was               lowered.
               "I               don't               wanna'               talk               about               it.

It's               all               I               hear               'bout               at               home.

That's               why               I               like               comin'               to               see               you               grandpa.

We               can               just               do               fun               things               without               the               bad."
               He               clicked               my               safety               on               and               turned               and               made               eye               contact               with               Danny.
               "It               is               all               you               hear               about               right?

Your               mother-well               we               both               know               she's               got               some               listening               problems,"               Barnes               chuckled,               "I'm               not               going               to               lecture               you.

I               want               to               talk               to               you.

Two-way               conversation."
               Danny               scratched               his               head,               "can               I               shoot               again?"
               "After               you               talk               to               me               you               can.

And               don't               worry,               what               I               hear               will               not               be               repeated-to               anyone."
               "No               one?"
               "Only               me,               this               rusted               old               junk               around               us,               God               and               this               gun               will               hear               what               we               say."
               Recognition,               sweet               recognition.
               "There's               this               kid               at               school               who               won't               leave               me               alone.

He-he               pulled               my               pants               down               in               the               lunch               line.

And-"               Danny               paused,               his               eyes               fluttered,               "he               keeps               calling               me               a               fag               and               a               mama's               boy.

And-and               said               freckles               are               jizz               stains               from               Satan               from               mom               bein'               a               whore               when               I               was               in               the               womb,               still."
               "Wow,               that               last               one               is-graphic.

It's               kind               of               creative.

Um-so               is               this               the               same               boy               you               had               the               altercation               with?"
               "No,               this               is               a               different               one."
               "And               you               can't               tell               someone-a               teacher-or               the               principle               about               this?"
               "What?

Tell               on               him?

I'm               not               gonna'               be               a               tattle-tell!

Sink               to               Justin's               level-I               hate               tattle-tells."               Danny               yelled.
               "Okay.

Calm               down."               Barnes               laughed,               "I               would               never               tattle               either               when               I               was               a               kid.

I               had               too               much               pride-pride               that               didn't               get               me               too               far               neither."               the               old               man               shifted               his               weight               in               his               boots,               "so,"
               He               aimed               me               back               towards               the               bottles,               "to               make               you               feel               better               about               being               picked               on,               you               go               and               pick               on               an               even               smaller               kid?"               He               breathed               out,               click.

My               safety               was               still               on,               Barnes               swore               under               his               breath.
               "I               guess,"               Danny               pushed               hair               out               of               his               face.
               "Here,"               he               said,               handing               me               handle-first               back               to               Danny.

Then               Barnes               slipped               a               case               of               Grizzly               Wintergreen               chew               from               his               back               pocket.

He               packed               it.

Opened               it.

Scooped               up               two               fingers               full               and               lodged               it               in               his               front               lip.

"You               know               this               kid-this               bully               probably               has               an               older               brother               at               home               who               knocks               him               around               a               bit-and               they               probably               have               a               dad               that               isn't               too               nice               either.

Or               maybe               he               was               picked               on               when               he               was               smaller               than               anyone               else.

Whatever               reason,               Danny,               you               have               to               rise               above               that.

You               have               to               break               that               chain.

Don't               go               pickin'               on               people               smaller               than               you               to               feel               better               about               yourself."
               Danny               set               a               crooked               sight               on               one               of               the               bottles,               stared               intently               through               his               mess               of               hair               at               the               targets,               "Grandpa?"
               "Yes?"               He               spat               black.
               "What's               it               like               to               shoot               somebody?"
               For               the               first               few               years,               my               routine               varied               very               little.

I               was               taken               out               every               Wednesday               around               six               O'clock               to               be               cleaned               as               he               watched               old               war               movies               and               Westerns.

I               was               taken               out               to               the               shooting               range               a               few               times               a               month               by               Danny               and               Barnes-and               I               never               got               to               see               the               mother               they               complained               about,               which               was               probably               for               the               better.

I               saw               Danny               sprout               higher               and               higher               and               Barnes               hunch               slightly               and               his               wrinkles               double               every               year.
               One               night,               my               two               years               of               routine               were               shattered               by               the               sound               of               breaking               glass.

It               came               from               downstairs.

Then               came               a               thud               followed               by               some               muffled               arguing.

After               a               short               time               of               muffled               sounds               downstairs,               two               men               entered               Barnes               room.

One               was               a               darker               skinned               man               with               a               pencil               thin               mustache.

Bags               under               his               eyes               were               two               shades               darker               than               his               skin.

The               darker               man               had               an               overstuffed               black               hoodless               jacket               with               the               words               "Ecko               Unltd"               in               old               English               font               on               the               bottom               and               the               outline               of               a               rhino               on               the               side               of               his               shoulder               in               red.

He               had               blue               jeans               that               rested               just               above               his               knees,               both               of               which               were               several               sizes               too               big-and               a               red               flat               brimmed               hat,               turned               sideways               slightly.

The               hat               had               a               white               dash               on               it.

Strange.
               The               other               man               was               taller,               white               and               gangly.

A               black               beanie               rested               just               above               his               beady               brown               eyes.

He               had               sunken               cheeks               and               thin               chapped               lips.

Above               bushy               brown               eyebrows,               a               scar               snaked               its               way               from               under               his               hat               and               ended               at               the               top               of               his               left               eyebrow.

On               the               side               of               his               neck               was               a               faded,               black               stick-and-poke               tattoo               of               a               two               of               spades               card.

The               lowest               card               in               poker.

He               wore               a               tattered               black               zip-up               hooded               sweater               and               some               paint-spattered               tan               Carthart               pants.

He               had               off-white               well-warn               shoes               with               the               tongues               pulled               way               out.

His               left               shoe               was               held               together               on               the               bottom               with               duct               tape.


               They               both               had               backpacks               on.

They               peeked               around               the               room,               like               overgrown               children               in               a               candy               store-a               candy               store               they               broke               in               to.


               The               first               thing               the               skinny               guy               spotted               was               the               framed               war               medals               mounted               above               Barnes'               bed.

He               jumped               up               on               the               bed               and               reached               up               and               lifted               the               frame               up               off               the               screw.

He               stood,               dirty               shoes               on               bed,               admiring               the               medals.

The               darker               man               start               sifting               through               drawers,               emptying               clothes               and               miscellaneous               knick-knacks               out               on               the               floor               in               to               chaotic               piles.

Occasionally               he               paused               to               examine               something               closer,               decide               it               had               value               and               shove               it               into               his               backpack.


               "Kalo!"               he               held               out               the               medals               for               him               to               look               at,               "What'cha'               think               these               babies               'er               worth?"               he               grinned               wide.


               "Jack               shit."               He               laughed,               looking               back               to               the               task               in               front               of               him,               "people               sell               that               shit               at               antique               shops               
               'n               shit               for               next               to               nothing."               
               "Are               you               fuckin'               serious,"               he               studied               them               closer,               "They               so               shiny,"               he               protested,               "               shit's               got'ta               be               worth               more               than               a               buck               'er               two,"               he               paused,               "               and               they               fuckin'               framed!"               
               "People               frame               shit               with               sentimental               value,               not               shit               with               monetary               value...Shit               dawg,               I               swear               yo'               brain               reboots               evera'               damn               morning,"               Kalo               went               back               to               his               work.


               "Fuck."               He               scratched               his               head               through               his               hat.

He               jumped               up               and               down               on               the               bed,               smearing               the               sheets               with               mud.

He               picked               up               height,               and               as               his               head               got               closer               to               the               ceiling               he               frisbeed               the               frame               over               Kalo's               head               and               it               shattered               on               the               wall               with               a               crash               of               drywall,               medals,               glass,               and               frame.


               Kalo's               head               shot               up               at               this,               "what               the               fuck               are               you               doin'?

Keep               it               the               fuck               down!"               he               stepped               closer               to               the               disrespectful               bastard               and               grabbed               him               by               the               sweater,               pulled               him               down               to               eye               level.


               "Dawg,               let               the               fuck               go'a               me."               His               eyebrows               formed               a               'V'               under               his               hat.


               "Jus'               'cause               the               owner's               not               here,               don't               mean               his               neighbors'               ain't."               He               let               go               of               his               sweater               with               a               firm               push.


               He               jumped               off               the               bed,               landing               hard               on               the               carpet.

The               white               male               paced               to               different               corners,               scanning               for               valuables               in               an               unorganized               fashion.

When               he               walked               his               shoulders               led,               left               followed               left               leg               and               right               followed               right.

He               held               his               head               up               as               he               walked,               prancing               in               a               way.

Paul               called               this               prison               swagger.


               After               a               while               of               probably               thinking               of               something               clever               to               say               back,               he               told               Kalo,               "Well               even               if               someone               did               come,               I               got               feet,               yah               know?"               
               "I               kin               run               too               man,               but               wouldn't               it               be               nice               to               jus'               walk               outta               somewhere               for               once?"               
               "Yeah               I               guess...You               sure               no               one's               gonna'               randomly               show               up               here?"               Skinny               white               asked.


               "Yeah,               I'm               sure.

I               mow               the               guy's               lawn-he's               always               in               and               out               of               the               hospital               'n               shit.

I               saw               him               leave               yesterday,               he               told               me               he'd               be               gone               a               bit,               asked               me               to               keep               an               eye               on               the               house."               
               "Wow...that               is               just               so               beanerly               of               you,"               he               laughed,               "robbin'               the               guy               who               gave               you               work,"               he               said,               holding               a               pair               of               reading               glasses               up               to               his               eyes               and               squinting,               "you               think               these'd               help               me               read?"               
               "I'm               Filipino               you               shit-for-brains               redneck,"               he               held               up               some               gold               chains,               "are               these               made               uh               real               gold?"               
               "Brown               is               brown               is               brown-like               shit!"               He               laughed,               "You               know               that,               man?

I               once               ate               nuthin'               but               egg               whites               'n               beer               for               a               day,               and               when               I               shit,               it               was               the               same               color               as               your               fuckin'               skin."               
               "Dawg               if               you               keep               sayin'               shit               like               dat               I               swear               Im'ma               pop               you               right               in               the               face...Plus-you're               the               one               with               the               beaner               name."               He               cackled,               "Diego-what               is               that               shit?

Ain't               that-ahmm               what's               dat               bitches               name?

Dora.

Ain't               that               Dora's               boyfriend's               name?"               
               "Who-the               fuck-is               Dora?"               He               shoved               some               rediscovered               change               in               his               pocket.


               "Yoouuuu               know               Dora.

Yah               know-dat               explorer               from               the               baby               cartoon?"               
               Kalo               continued               to               dangle               the               chains               for               him               to               look               at.


               "Get               'em               outta'               my               face,               man.

I               dunno'               real               from               fake               gold               man               just               take               it               all               we'll               sort               through               it               later,"               Diego               yelled               as               he               continued               picking               through               a               dresser,               "there's               a               buncha'               girlie-ass               shit               in               here-this               guy               queer               or               married               or               what?"               
               "Queer?

I               can't               even               believe               you               just               asked               that.

He               was               in               the               army,               dumbass,               you               can't               be               queer               and               in               the               army."               
               "Well               his               wife               has               some               nice               stuff               then,"               he               held               up               a               gold               broach               with               a               female               bust               carved               in               ivory               affixed               to               it.

He               studied               it,               and               then               stuffed               it               into               his               backpack.


               The               skinny               white               man               left               and               returned               from               the               bathroom,               struggling               to               keep               grasp               of               handfuls               of               pill               bottles,               "I               love               old               people,"               he               said               ecstatically,               "I               really               do.

It's               like               they               take               two               pills               'n               jus'               leave               the               rest."               
               "You               said               I               get               the               next               bathroom?"               
               "Yeaaah-next               bathroom,"               Diego               laughed,               tossing               all               the               bottles               in               his               backpack.

He               pulled               a               random               pill               bottle               out               and               read               it               to               himself,               "strong               shit,               too,"               he               muttered               under               his               breath.


               The               space               around               Diego's               beady               black               pupils               widened               as               his               gaze               met               my               gun               case.


               "Glass               safes..."               he               snickered,               "they're               as               easy               as               passed               out               chicks."
               Through               the               grey               fuzz               of               mold,               Dr               .

Phil's               bald               held               shone               brightly               under               studio               lights.

He               was               on               a               set               made               up               to               look               like               a               typical,               but               un-used               therapist's               office.

He               stared               down               his               large               nose               at               a               skinny               and               tattooed               teenager               with               a               shaved               head               and               a               face               red               and               soggy               with               tears.


               "What               you               are               doing               is               displacing               the               anger               you               feel               towards               yourself               on               those               you               love.

You               are               burning               the               bridges               that               got               you               to               where               you               are               now,"               he               pointed               a               knobbed               pointer               finger               at               the               kid,               "once               you               turn               to               run               from               your               anger,               you'll               find               you               have               no               bridges               left               to               cross,               and               you               will               drown!"               
               The               kid               buried               his               face               behind               two               large               veiny               hands.

Waterfalls               of               tears               streamed               down               his               face               uncontrollably.


               "I               know.

I               know               I               know               I               know."               He               scrunched               his               eyes               shut               hard;               tears               forced               their               way               through               the               corners.

He               smacked               his               forehead               with               the               palms               of               his               hands.

Then               again.

In               frustration.

"I               jus-I               jus-do               things.

Whether               or               not               I               want               to.

I               just               do               them               before               I               get               a               chance               to               stop               myself."
               My               owner's               snores               cut               off               Dr.

Phil's               response.

The               fuse               of               his               cigarette               inched               closer               to               the               filter,               leaving               behind               a               delicate               ash               skeleton.

I               was               lying               on               his               wooden               table,               the               point               of               a               triangle               between               Diego               and               his               television               set.

I               stared               at               them               through               grey               mold               fuzz               that               sprouted               from               an               unnamable               and               unspeaking               little               pile               of               something.


               Dr.

Phil's               hard               love               eyes               judged               us               all               equally.


               The               cigarette,               held               more               by               chance               than               two               fingers,               dropped               to               the               carpet.

It               sizzled               from               moisture.

From               a               carpet               always               damp               with               spilt               drinks               and               urine.

Some               carpet               fibers               melted               black               slightly               before               the               butt               quickly               extinguished.


               Life               spared               by?


               My               new               forced               home               was               a               dingy               studio               apartment               with               a               patio.

It               was               dimly               lit               by               the               one               light               in               the               kitchen-the               only               one               that               hadn't               burnt               out.

The               combination               of               dim               lighting,               the               permanent               hang               of               lazy               smoke               in               the               air,               and               the               bent               cans               and               molding               food               made               Diego's               apartment               much               resemble               descriptions               of               the               Opium               dens               from               one               of               Paul's               history               documentaries.
               I               suffered               for               weeks               through               the               blight               that               is               daytime               television.

The               moral               of               every               show               was               Get               a               job.

The               cliffhanger:               You're               still               there?

Really?

Haven't               gotten               up               at               all               yet?

Really?


               This               is               what               Diego               did               most               of               the               time.

Watch               television,               occasionally               other               people               joined               the               couch.

He               or               they               and               he               often               drank               beer               during               this,               always               smoked               during               this               and               occasionally               put               things               in               their               nose               or               in               their               mouth               during               this.
               Whenever               a               good               deal               of               money               was               made               all               at               once,               it               was               poured               into               celebration               of               said               victory.

Diego               had               to               celebrate               that               two-month's               rent               was               here,               and               not               a               penny               shall               be               spared.


               Ill               earned               money.


               Ill               spent               money.


               Diego               slammed               a               wad               of               crumpled               bills               down               on               the               table               knocking               over               a               pyramid               of               16               oz               High               Gravity               cans               and               Four               Lokos.

He               flipped               open               his               phone               and               began               dialing               numbers.

Waited               a               second.


               "Hey               Kalo.

We               ain't               drinkin'               malt               liquor               tonight!"               He               yelled               into               the               phone.

A               minor               pause,               "Yeahh               boy.

Yeah...yeah.

Patron               on               ice               nicka'!"               He               paced               back               and               forth               in               anticipation,               listening               to               the               whaw               whaw               whaw               on               the               other               side,               "Tell--ahhmm...those               one               bitches               yah'know               ta               come.

Ya'               know,"               he               bit               his               lip,               "Ah,               Denise               and               Sissy               and               your               boy               Detroit-tell               'em               he               can               bring               his               cool               friends               too-mosta'               'em               anyways.

What's               that               bigga'               girls               name?"               He               paused,               "she               was               chillen'               at               your               pad               the               other               day.

She               was               cool               too.

I               mean               not               ta               fuck               er               nuthin-nooooo.

She               was               like               one               ah               the               guys."               He               paused               to               listen               to               the               squawking               on               the               other               side               and               nodded               along,               "Yeah-No-don't               worry               'bout               none               ah               that,               you               bring               a               wrap               and               I'll               fill               it.

All               you               gotta'               worry               'bout               is               what               flavor               gets               yo'               tip               wet."               
               He               laughed               as               he               snagged               a               dented               can               of               Cobra               off               the               mess               of               the               table               and               tipped               it               back               letting               some               of               the               washed-out               yellow-brown               liquid               pour               into               his               mouth.

Then               he               spat-sprayed               it               along               the               length               of               the               table,               misting               me.

He               sat               the               can               down               hard               and               something               clanked               around               in               it.


               "Oh               fuck!"               A               squawk.

"Aw               fuck               dawg               I               just               sipped               a               beer               with               a               cigarette               butt               in               it...

Gross."               he               spat               on               the               floor.


               My               world               spun               180               degrees.

Then               up               and               down               against               Diego's               jersey.


               Thanks               for               wiping               me               off.


               And               then               he               shoved               me               in               his               pocket.


               He               made               a               few               more               very               similar               calls.

Then               he               walked               to               the               liquor               store-where,               while               still               in               his               pocket               I               was               joined               by               a               pint               of               Montego               Bay               Rum,               who               had               traveled               all               the               way               from               Jamaica.

We               got               to               know               each               other               fast               being               as               crammed               together               as               we               were.

The               pint               told               me               he               suspected               he               was               being               shoplifted               and               that               I               should               do               something.

I               told               him               that,               as               a               gun,               all               I               could               do               is               fire               a               bullet               through               my               barrel-and               even               then,               I               could               only               do               so               when               my               trigger               was               pressed               firmly.

We               spoke               during               the               walk               back               to               the               apartment.
               Monty,               as               he               referred               to               himself,               asked               me               why               someone               would               take               something               from               such               an               honest               establishment               as               the               state-run               liquor               store,               when               one               hadn't               earned               the               cash               to               make               a               proper               transaction.
               I               told               him               that,               from               my               experience,               people               didn't               always               do               what               was               right.

My               owner               took               things               from               others               when               he               wanted,               whether               or               not               he               needed               to-and               at               times,               when               he               didn't               seem               to               even               want               to.

Taking               things               and               braking               things               was               Diego's               nature,               like               mine               was               to               shoot               and               Monty's               was               to               be               drank.
               I               felt               him               walk               up               the               stairs,               step               by               step               by               step,               up               the               third               floor.

His               apartment's               floor.
               There               was               a               muffled               shrill               voice               heard               through               his               jeans.

I               shush               Monty               so               I               could               listen.
               "Look               like               you               havin'a               bit               of               a               party               later?"               I               heard               a               flirtatious               female               voice               say.
               "Yeah,               I               mean,               I               guess               you               could               call               it               somethin'               like               that."
               "Are               you               celebratin'               somethin'?"
               "My               birthday."               The               bottles               in               his               paper               bag               clanked               together               as               he               bended               to               set               them               on               the               ground.
               "Fer               real?"               She               said               with               flirting               doubt               in               her               voice.
               "Sure."               His               keys               jingled               from               the               pockets               furthest               from               me.
               "Well               dang,               I               would               love               to               come,               but               I               don't               got               a               present               for               you."
               "You               wear               a               bow               baby               and               you               can               come               as               my               present."
               She               giggled,               "what               time's               this               little               shindig               gonna'               get               poppin'               at?"
               "Poppin'               'round               ten               but               you               can               pop               in               any               time."
               "Cool,               I               can               be               here               around               nine-nine               thirtyish."
               "That'd               be               jus'               fine               'n               dandy."
               Fine'n               dandy?

Asked               Monty.
               Diego               tried               to               use               big               words               to               impress               girls               but               had               a               very               limited               vocabulary               ,               I               explained.

I               had               witnessed               such               strange               word               choice               many               times               since               I'd               lived               with               him.
               Fine'n               dandy               isn't               big               it's               just               old-fashioned               .

Monty               was               perplexed.
               I               told               him               not               to               look               into               it.
               I               was               left               in               his               pocket               for               the               first               few               hours.

Through               his               pocket               I               heard               music               turned               up               about               an               hour               in.

Mindless               head-pounding               base.

The               sound               of               people               filtered               in               for               the               next               few               hours.

I               counted               about               eight               before               it               became               impossible               to               count               with               the               continual               in               and               out               as               people               left               to               smoke               or               get               beer               or               to               pick               people               up               or               to               leave.

About               three               hours               in,               I               was               finally               drawn               from               his               pocket               and               tucked               into               his               belt               in               the               front.

The               room               had               gone               through               dramatic               changes               since               I               was               away.
               Tornado               times               ten.
               The               wreck               of               beer               cans,               garbage               and               cigarette               butts               that               had               been               on               the               table               were               now               in               a               heap               on               the               floor-replaced               by               a               single               clear               glass               with               a               murky               off-brown               liquid               in               it               and               a               quarter               sunk               on               the               bottom.

Other               than               that,               there               were               just               a               few               red               plastic               cups               and               some               miscellaneous               spilled               powders               and               drinks.

There               were               a               bunch               of               people               crammed               out               on               the               patio               passing               an               over-sized               rolled               cigarette.

Across               from               me,               from               right               to               left,               were               a               woman,               a               man,               and               a               passed               out               man               all               sitting               on               rusted               white               lawn               chairs               pressed               closely               up               to               the               table.

There               were               a               couple               more               tipped               over               chairs               in               the               vicinity.

I               heard               the               voices               of               a               couple               people               talking               to               each               other               on               the               couch               next               to               Diego               and               me.
               My               owner               looks               up               and               down               the               girl,               probably               thinking               he               was               checking               her               out               discreetly,               but               he               appeared               too               intoxicated               for               subtly.

She               didn't               seem               to               mind               much.
               "Yo               Siss-aay,               you               wanna'               'nnother               linne?"               His               'N's'               drug               out               extra-long               as               he               spoke.
               "Sure,"               she               nodded,               "Cut               me               another."               Sissy               flung               the               giant               black               mess               of               curls               that               were               her               bangs               out               of               her               face.
               Sissy               was               skinny.

Like               someone               stretched               fake               orange               tan               tinted               skin               tightly               over               a               tall               and               thin               female               skeleton.

On               top               of               her               actual               skinny               appearance,               extra               measures               had               been               taken               to               assure               Sissy               resembled               an               over-make-upped               human               toothpick.

She               had               extra-large               gold               hoop               earrings,               a               tight               black               tank-top,               tight               blue               jeans,               and               next               to               her               sat               a               large               purse.

She               had               a               long               thin               nose               and               a               wide               mouth               with               bright               red               lip               stick-all               the               better               for               snorting               and               blowing               with,               I               presumed.
               Evolution               disgusted               me.
               "Hurry               up!"               She               whined,               "I               wanna'               go               git               down               on               dat               blunt."
               Diego               was               aligning               a               grainy               white               powder               on               the               table               with               a               hotel               key               card.

Best               Western.

He               scraped               the               table               hard;               he               slid               the               collected               powder               into               the               center               forming               a               half-inch               line               of               powder.

He               slid               the               card               along               each               side               of               the               line,               tapped               it               on               the               table.

Repeated.

Scraped               the               table               hard.

Little               discolored               specks               peeled               off               the               table               and               mixed               in               accidentally.

My               owner's               eyes               occasionally               drifted               around               the               room.

They               focused               outside               for               a               second,               and               then               glared               at               the               two               men,               then               toward               Sissy's               face,               then               down               toward               her               breasts,               the               two               tangerines               that               poked               out               of               the               skeletons               chest,               then               back               down               to               the               task               at               hand.
               He               pulled               the               card               away,               "'aight,"               he               slid               his               tongue               across               both               sides               of               the               card,               then               rubbed               his               index               finger               back               and               forth               on               his               gums,               "You               got               dat               bill               still               'er               somethinn'?"
               "Yeah,"               she               pulled               a               partially               rolled               bill               from               her               pocket               and               rolled               it               tighter               and               leaned               closer               to               the               table.

Sissy               placed               one               end               of               the               bill               up               to               her               nostril               and               held               the               other               nostril               closed               with               a               finger.

She               hovered               the               bill               along               the               line               of               powder               and               it               disappeared               into               the               depths               of               her               anteater               nose.
               "You               think               I               could               get               in               on               this?"               the               man               next               to               her               peeked               over               her               shoulder               and               asked.
               Diego               glared               at               the               man.
               "If               you               wanna'               do               a               bump               outta'               the               barrel               ah               my               .38?"               He               said               with               a               crooked               smile.
               "Dude.

Shit.

Sorry,               I               was               just               asking,"               the               man               put               his               hands               up               defensively.
               Sissy's               mouth               curled               into               a               smirk.

She               shoved               the               bill               back               in               her               pocket.

Tipped               her               head               back,               cleared               her               sinuses.

Then               she               cackled.

Rubbed               her               index               finger               back               and               forth               on               her               gums.
               "Who               even               invited               you               here               anyway,               creep-a-leap?

Go               free-load               somewher'               else."               Sissy               shouted,               nudging               the               man               slightly.
               "I               gotta'               free               load               from               yo               mama               last               night,               give               her               a               call               maybe               she               got               some               fight               left               in               her,"               Diego               roared               with               hyena               cackles               of               laughter.

He               rested               his               hand               on               my               handle.
               "               Dawwg               you               better               watch               yourself."               The               man               stood               up,               gazing               deliberately               down               his               nose               at               my               owner.
               Diego               stayed               sitting.

A               fifth               of               Cognac               magically               in               his               left               hand.
               "               Me               watch               myself?"               He               took               a               swig               from               the               bottle,               "whose               place               you               in               right               nnow?

Who's               alcohol               you               been               drankan-n               on?"               He               set               the               bottle               on               the               table               and               pointed               it               at               him,               "whose               friends               you               surrounded               by?"               He               leaned               forward               and               grabbed               the               glass               from               the               center               of               table.

He               examined               it               for               a               second,               the               quarter               clanked               against               the               sides               as               he               turned               it               in               his               hands.
               "Git               the               fuck               outta'               here,"               he               flung               the               glass               at               the               passed               out               guy               and               it               splashed               the               guys               face               and               chest.

The               glass               bounced               off               him               and               landed               on               the               carpet-the               quarter               leaped               from               it.

The               passed-out               guy               just               flinched               but               didn't               wake.

"And               take               your               lil'               fuck               buddy               wit'cha."
               The               splashed               liquid               seemed               to               boil               on               the               standing               man's               face               while               he               turned               red.

His               face               scrunched               up               in               the               middle.

The               voices               next               to               us               on               the               couch               started               whooping               and               hollering.

Their               weight               shifted               up               and               down               on               the               cushions.

One               of               them               flung               a               lit               cigarette               at               the               standing               guy               and               another               spat               on               the               guy               passed               out               in               the               chair.
               "Booooooo---gett               out!"               one               of               them               yelled               spitting               and               laughing.
               Another               loogie,               murky               Carmel-colored               and               thick               struck               the               red-faced               man               in               the               nose.

The               heaviest               mass               of               the               spittle               leapt               slowly               down               the               tip               of               his               nose               and               to               his               upper               lip,               leaving               a               web-like               comet               tail               behind               it.

He               wiped               it               with               his               shoulder               sleeve.
               The               man,               still               red               in               the               face,               looked               around               the               room,               "well               has               anyone               seen               my               coat               anywhere?"
               "Im'ma'               count               to               a               numba'-not               gonna'               say               which               one,"               his               hand               gripped               my               handle               firmly.

Then               pulled               me               free               of               the               belt               and               lifted               me               to               face               the               guy's               chest.

The               man               stumbled               backwards               as               if               sucker               punched               in               the               nose,               knocking               down               a               lawn               chair.

He               was               back               on               his               feet               as               soon               as               he               went               down.

"And               if               you               ain't               outta'               that               door               by               the               time               I               reach               that               numba,'               Im'ma               give               you               an               asshole               where               your               face-hole               use'ta               be."
               The               guy's               hands               were               up               at               his               sides               again               and               I               was               aimed               squarely               at               his               face               now.
               I               didn't               want               to               kill               this               guy.

I               didn't               even               know               this               guy.
               Just               walk               away.

I               wanted               to               yell               to               him               to               run.
               I               wanted               to               tell               the               man               my               owner               isn't               stable.

Frankly               none               of               them               were.

Out               the               door               fast               with               his               tail               between               his               legs,               a               storm               of               spit               and               beer               bottles               trailed               him               and               smacked               the               door               as               it               slammed               shut.

Then               the               guy               was               gone.

Friend               and               jacket               left               behind.
               Then               I               was               tucked               away               again               in               the               pocket               not               the               belt.

I               spoke               with               Monty               for               a               while.

I               told               him               all               the               crazy               stuff               that               just               happened.

He               spoke               judgmentally               for               a               while               with               his               sheltered               imported               Jamaican               mind.

Throughout               the               next               few               hours               he               was               periodically               taken               out               and               put               back               with               less               of               his               brown               liquid               life               blood.

He               was               shuffled               through               my               owners               many               pockets               until               eventually               he               never               returned.
               In               the               morning,               I               found               myself               staring               into               a               pair               of               silky               pink               panties,               resting               in               a               nest               of               crumpled               blue               jeans               on               what               appeared               to               be               my               owner's               multi-colored               carpet.


               Oh               the               things               I               have               seen,               they               told               me,               oh               the               things               I               have               seen.


               A               toilet               flushed               somewhere               to               the               right               of               me.

This               must               have               been               my               owner's               bedroom.

I               knew               that               for               sure               now.

Skinny               bare               legs               and               feet               passed               by               me               having               emerged               from               the               bathroom's               direction.

They               stopped               in               place               in               front               of               the               panties               and               jeans.

From               atop               the               legs               I               heard               the               girl               make               the               sound,               like               that               of               a               held-back               sneeze,               then               the               legs               disappeared               again               into               the               bathroom.

The               toilet               flushed               and               the               legs               stumbled               back               in.

Arms               into               view               picked               up               the               panties               and               pants,               stretched               them               over               her               skinny               naked               body.

It               was               Sissy               from               last               night.

She               gathered               things               up               franticly               and               shoved               them               in               her               purse-a               bulky               counterfeit               Dolce               and               Gabbana.

She               slipped               on               a               t-shirt               with               a               cartoon               Calvin               sucking               spaghetti               out               of               the               skull               of               Hobbes.

Then               the               legs               walked               passed               me,               stopped,               and               circled               back.

I               was               gently               gripped               by               a               female's               hand.

Bright               red               finger               nails               glinted               in               the               morning               sun               that               shown               through               the               blinds,               and               the               hands               threw               me               in               the               purse.

Zipped               it               up.
               I               traveled               in               the               dark               for               hours,               bouncing               around               with               the               contents               of               Sissy's               purse.

I               attempted               polite               conversation               with               her               lipstick,               her               chewing               gum,               her               pink               pocket               sized               pepper               spray,               but               was               just               met               with               rude               snickers.
               Sissy's               aspirin               bottle               told               me               that               my               serial               numbers               would               probably               be               scraped               off               and               then               I               would               be               sold               for               parts.
               Sissy's               personal               mirror               told               me               I               would               be               used               to               hold               up               a               convenience               store               and               then               she               would               throw               me               in               a               river               to               destroy               the               evidence.
               I               tried               not               to               take               anything               too               personal;               they               were               just               reflecting               their               owner's               condescending               demeanor.
               I               traveled               a               bit               in               the               darkness               of               her               purse.

I               could               barely               hear               the               conversation               from               the               outside.

I               was               forced               to               endure               the               disrespectful               behavior               of               the               contents               of               Sissy's               purse.
               Sissy's               tampons               told               me               I'll               probably               be               shoved               inside               her               for               a               few               hours,               then               yanked               out               and               thrown               in               the               trash.
               A               loose               stick               of               gum               told               me               to               fuck               myself.
               Days               passed               in               complete               darkness.

Snickers               and               snide               remarks               became               common               place               and               lost               all               effect               on               me.
               A               ribbed               condom               told               me               not               to               lose               my               head.

Roll               with               the               punches.Existence               is               filled               with               moments               of               pain               and               pleasure               alike.The               key               is               to               cherish               it               all               equally.

Grow               from               it.

Learn               from               it.

It               was               the               nicest               thing               I               spoke               to               in               Sissy's               purse.

Sometimes               you               get               the               pink.

Sometimes               you               get               the               stink.
               Finally               I               heard               the               zipper               unzip               and               light               poured               in.

The               hand               dug               around               and               grabbed               a               hold               of               me.

I               was               lifted               up               and               sat               flat               on               glass.
               I               knew               this               place!
               I               was               back               at               Pauly's               Pawn               and               Gun               Shop.

I               was               excited               to               see               if               Paul               was               there,               but               it               was               just               his               partner               Bob.

Bob               was               a               beer-bellied,               low-energy               man.

He               had               two               chins               and               one               shiny               forehead.
               "The               sign               outside               says               you               buy               guns?"               Sissy               brushed               her               bangs               out               of               her               eyes,               "I               got               it               as               a               Christmas               present               and               could               use               cash               a               bit               more."
               Bob               picked               me               up,               examined               me.
               "How               much               you               tryin'               to               get               for               this?"               Bob               gazed               judgmentally               at               her.
               "Ahh,               I               dunno'.

A               couple               hundred               bucks'd               be               nice."
               "You               mind               waitin'               a               sec'?

Handgun's               are               more               Pauly's               thing."
               "Yeah               whatever,               I               got               a               few               minutes,"               She               eyed               the               door               behind               her.
               Bob               carried               me               to               his               back               office.

He               found               a               pen               and               scrape               piece               of               paper               among               the               mountains               of               junk               on               his               desk.

He               wrote               down               my               serial               number.

Then               he               went               back               to               shuffling               through               papers               on               his               desk               until               he               found               the               one               he               had               been               looking               for.

He               held               it               up               to               the               light.

It               was               a               poorly               faxed               list               of               serial               numbers.

My               number               was               fifth               from               the               top.
               Then               he               dialed               9-1-1               and               asked               for               the               police.
               I               was               driven               back               to               Barnes               by               police               officers.

They               told               him               he               was               very               lucky               to               get               me               back,               since               most               stolen               firearms               were               never               found.

Barnes               had               to               sign               more               papers               to               reclaim               me               and               I               was               home               again.
               The               house               hadn't               changed               a               whole               lot;               just               a               few               things               had               just               been               shuffled               here               and               there,               but               nothing               much.

Barnes               had               changed               though.

The               once               spry               and               outspoken               wise               old               man               seemed               frail               and               more               reserved               than               before               I               had               been               stolen.
               After               placing               me               back               in               my               case               he               called               someone               on               the               phone               in               the               living               room.

The               phone               call               didn't               last               too               long-and               I               couldn't               make               out               what               he               had               been               saying.

After               he               hung               up               the               phone               he               walked               slowly               to               his               bed,               crawled               under               the               top               cover,               and               fell               asleep.
               The               initial               excitement               of               my               return               quickly               fizzled               away               and               I               grew               bored               and               lonely               in               my               case.

I               just               hung               there.

Barnes               just               sat               there.

Danny               didn't               come               hang               out               any               more               on               his               own.

Occasionally               the               whole               family               came               and               visited               but               it               was               short,               awkward               and               forced.

I               would               only               be               fired               twice               more               by               Barnes.
               It               was               early               winter               a               year               after               I               had               been               returned.

It               wasn't               cold               enough               to               snow               yet,               just               cold               enough               for               everything               to               be               equally               frozen               in               place.

The               ground               was               shiny               white               with               miniature               ice               canyons               that               crunched               under               Barnes'               boots.

He               drove               us               out               down               to               the               old               dirt               lot               where               he               and               Danny               use               to               fire               me               at               old               cars,               bottles,               old               washers,               driers               and               television               sets.

The               old               man               stood               alone               in               the               cold,               his               lower               lip               bulged               with               chew.

He               stood               long               and               hard,               examining               our               many               potential               targets.

He               shivered               under               red               flannel.

Spat               black               on               the               frozen               gravel.

He               laid               his               eyes               on               a               target.

An               old               rusted               and               charred               burn               barrel               that               was               nearly               rusting               in               half.

This               seemed               to               be               a               large               enough               target               for               the               sharp               shooter,               but               Barnes               was               grimacing.

His               eyes               seemed               out               of               focus.

Strained.

He               was               breathing               heavy,               the               cold               air               was               raspy               in               his               lungs.

He               panted.

Spat               black.

He               slowly               lifted               me               up,               rattling               back               and               forth               between               two               wobbly               leathery               hands.

He               turned               me               over               in               his               hands,               left               to               right,               to               left-examining               my               sides,               my               weight.

I               thought               back               to               when               he               had               first               handled               me.

I               wondered               if               I               pictured               it               clear               enough,               I               could               go               back               to               the               pawn               shop-grab               that               moment               and               hold               on               to               it               and               not               let               go.

Instead,               I               tried               capture               the               moment               in               a               three               word               story:
               There               aren't               words.
               Then               he               pressed               my               cold               barrel               up               to               his               warm               pulsating               temple.

This               was               the               closest               I               would               ever               come               to               looking               into               the               man's               eyes.

They               were               pale               and               tired,               sunken               back               behind               ripples               of               wrinkles               against               light               blue               bags.

His               wrinkles               had               all               sagged               downward               to               a               ground               that               wanted               him               more.

His               eyes               shook,               fighting               tears.
               Men               don't               cry.
               I               told               him               not               to               pull               my               trigger,               through               words               he               could               not               hear.
               I               told               him               I'd               do               everything               in               my               power               to               malfunction.

Maybe               my               firing               pin               was               frozen.

Maybe               it               would               shatter               from               the               rapid               change               in               temperature               caused               by               igniting               gunpowder.
               Maybe               my               bullets               were               duds.

One               dud               was               rare.

All               of               them,               impossible.

Maybe               one               dud               would               do               it.

Scare               him               straight.

Convince               him               to               live.
               Our               shared               immobility               had               brought               us               closer               than               we               had               ever               been.

As               close               as               I               had               desired,               but               disagreeing               reasons.
               He               clenched               his               eyes               tight.

Filled               his               lungs               with               cool               crisp               air.
               POW               POW               POW.
               Breathe               out.

My               bullets               ricashaed               off               frozen               gravel               around               the               burn               barrel,               dislodging               bits               of               icy               glass               shards               and               rock               and               sending               them               flying.

He               had               swung               me               around               last               minute.
               The               old               man               spat               black.

Swore               under               his               breath.
               He               went               down               into               a               squatting               position               and               flung               me               to               the               ground               in               front               of               him.

Stared               at               me               with               his               hands               cupped               over               his               mouth.
               Not               yet,               cowboy.
               The               next               three               years               crawled               by               more               slowly               than               the               few               that               preceded               them.

It               was               like               the               roaring               ups               and               downs               of               the               roller               coaster               I               rode               were               slowly               climbing               up               that               final               hill.

Danny               flunked               three               classes               in               his               senior               year               of               high               school               and               was               going               to               have               to               finish               in               the               summer.

The               two               grew               further               apart,               each               became               their               own               person,               more               and               more               through               the               passing               of               years.

Barnes               continued               his               upward               battle               with               time-in               and               out               of               the               hospital,               he               spent               his               seventy-sixth               birthday               in               the               hospital.

Something               was               lodged               in               my               barrel,               disdain,               or               what               I               knew               of               the               word.

My               inability               to               interact               with               the               world               that               I               was               so               involved               in               grew               heavy               in               me,               like               so               much               melted               lead.
               I               was               moved               from               the               gun               case               to               his               bed               side               table               with               the               company               of               more               dead               objects.

Here,               I               spent               more               years               than               I               could               count.

I               ran               out               of               three-word               stories               fast               and               took               to               thinking               up               poetry               in               my               hours               of               days               of               years               in               dark               silence.

Free-form,               short               and               abstract               prose,               of               course,               like               all               gun               poetry.

I               ran               out               of               three-word               story               combinations               my               first               year.
               "Untitled"
               Human               nature               is               the               greatest               crime,               of               which               there               is               no               punishment.

Fate               is               the               lie               we               apply               to               what               we               cannot               control.

Nature               and               function.

Like               inseparable               Siamese               twins,               connected               at               the               head.
               "Free               will               and               silence"               
               Foolish               was               the               tree               who               held               his               leaves               during               fall.

Foolish               was               the               cat               that               ignored               his               curious               drive,               to               extend               his               life-only               to               die               fat,               bored               and               lonely               of               old               age.

Foolish               was               the               cow               who               wanted               to               make               something               of               himself,               and               not               be               made               into               something.

Foolish               was               the               gun               who               dared               to               dream.


               "Colt               Python,               Wise               Asshole."               
               Oh               how               the               Python               was               right.

How               I               pray               this               place               burn,               just               to               see               some               damn               light.

The               silence               and               dark               crush               my               spirit.

It               screams               but               no               one               can               hear               it.

Please               open               my               drawer.

I'm               not               sure               I               want               to               live               any               more.

I've               seen               enough               to               be               seen.

I               don't               want               to               be               mean.

But               please               shoot               yourself               so               I               may               leave               this               place.

I               am               no               longer               fit               for               the               handgun               race.
               The               next               few               years               were               bumpy               to               say               the               least.

Barnes'               mind               slipped               further               and               further.

He               was               never               taken               out               to               be               cleaned.

I               didn't               trust               him               to               shoot               me,               but               he               didn't               anyways.

His               grip               on               where               he               was,               when               it               was,               and               sometimes               who               he               was               seemed               to               be               slipping               further               and               further               away               from               him.

Paranoia               grew               in               him.

I               was               moved               to               his               side               table               drawer.

Sometimes               I               would               be               moved               from               inside               to               on               top               of               the               side               table-back               and               forth               in               the               same               night.

All               the               men               who               ever               hunted               him               seemed               to               creep               into               his               house               at               night.

I               was               drawn               on               cats               outside               in               the               bushes,               deer,               or               the               wind               at               the               window.

The               plumbing               in               the               walls.

He               saw               the               robbers               from               the               night               I               was               stolen               pounce               out               of               dark               corners               in               ski               masks               the               second               he               tried               to               close               his               eyes.

He               would               wake               up               sweating               and               confused               and               mumbling.
               One               night,               my               complete               darkness               was               barely               flooded               with               dim               moonlight.

The               drawer               slid               open               and               Barnes'               leathery               hands               molested               the               darkness               around               me               until               gripping               me               firmly               by               the               handle.

Me               in               trembling               hands               he               crept               downstairs.

I               was               drawn               at               attention,               pointed               into               the               grey               and               black               shapes               in               front               of               me.


               What               was               it               this               time?

Deer               picking               at               the               rose               garden?

A               wind               storm?

My               guess               was               as               good               as               nobodies.
               He               did               his               best               to               quiet               his               footsteps               but               his               poor               limb               control               on               old               stairs               creaked               with               every               step.

I               wobbled               in               unsteady               fingers.

Barnes               stopped               cold               in               his               tracks               in               front               of               the               kitchen.

There               was               as               an               obvious               dark               outline               of               a               figure               standing               in               the               center               of               his               kitchen.

The               figure               didn't               move.

The               two               dark               beings               seemed               to               hold               their               breath               at               once.

Barnes               filled               his               lungs               with               oxygen               and               the               dark               figure               took               a               slow               step               back.
               Slow               cautious               dance.
               He               pulled               my               trigger               four               times               in               a               row.

Right               after               another.

He               stopped               holding               his               breath               after               the               fourth               bullet               found               its               mark.
               POW.

A               shatter.

POW.

The               sound               like               a               bullet               hitting               a               wet               mattress.

Thud.

POW.

Snapping               tile.

POW.

The               sound               of               splintering               wood.
               The               lights               fluttered               on.


               Laying               awkwardly               on               the               wood               floor               in               front               of               us               was               a               tall               white               male,               his               face               closest               to               us.

His               struggled               breathe               spattered               bits               of               blood               against               his               galaxy               of               freckles.

There               was               blood               running               like               a               faucet               out               of               his               nostrils               and               down               the               side               of               his               cheek,               some               beaded               on               the               tips               of               the               stubble               on               his               chin.

The               man               writhed               in               pain,               clutching               at               the               leaking               fluid               from               the               hole               just               next               to               his               third               floating               rib               from               the               bottom.
               "Ehhh-ah,"               Barnes               cleared               his               throat,               keeping               me               shakily               fixed               on               the               wounded               body,               "are               you-ahh-live?"
               "Grrahhh-mm-hhhhhehhh,"               struggled               attempts               at               words               answered               back               with               fast               raspy               pants               of               breathes.
               The               robber               curled               into               a               fetal               position.

His               long               brown               hair               matted               with               thick               as               molasses               blood.

The               man's               black               long               sleeve               t-shirt               read               "Jack               in               the               Box"               in               faded               red               letters.

It               had               the               outline               of               a               pointy-headed               figure               above               it               with               a               torn               round               hole               near               the               head               where               dark               liquid               life               blood               poured               out,               dirtying               the               shirt               and               floor.
               The               robber               shook               vigorously.

Deep               raspy               breathes.

His               eyes               closed               tight               like               crows               foot               prints               in               sand.


               "Ehhhhh---srrrrrrrrr-----ahheh----hheeee-gggggh,"               the               figure               rocked               back               and               forth,               trying               to               speak.
               "Try               to               steal               from               me               punk!

Try               to               take               my               things?

Come               in'n               disrespectin'               my               house?

There's               a               last               time               for               everything-ain't               there?"               He               trained               me               on               the               robber's               head               with               his               finger               on               my               trigger,               "I've               taken'               younger               lives               over               a               whole               lot               less!"               After               some               hesitation,               he               drew               me               back               and               sat               me               on               the               counter-top.
               Each               tile               on               the               counter               was               slightly               different               though               they               were               all               of               same               basic               floral               design.

A               simplified               image               of               red               daisies               sprouting               out               of               grass.

They               had               been               hand               painted               by               hundreds               of               different               people               in               a               factory               in               Taiwan               forty               years               ago.

The               shipping               and               installation               had               cost               more               than               the               painting               and               the               firing.

In               front               of               me               was               half               a               coffee               mug               with               a               hole               in               the               tile               behind               it.

Below               the               jagged               ceramic               teeth               was               the               word               "grandpa"               in               faded               white.

I               heard               Barnes               click               at               the               buttons               on               the               cord               phone.

The               cracked               mug               told               me               he'd               held               some               fine               Arabic               coffee               in               his               day.

Only               the               best.
               I               don't               blame               you               ,               the               mug               told               me.
               I               can't               help               but               feel               a               little               guilty               ,               I               told               him.
               The               writhing               thing               on               the               floor               let               out               a               final               gurgled               scream.

It               convulsed,               shot               a               leg               behind               it               and               put               a               whole               in               the               wood               cupboard               below               the               sink.

Little               splinters               shot               forth,               skiing               along               the               pool               of               blood               until               the               stickiness               suctioned               them               downward.

Then               it               breathed               out.

Raspy               and               struggled               like               the               first               breath               after               someone               gets               the               wind               knocked               out               of               them.
               Barnes               told               the               phone               there               was               an               intruder               lying               on               the               cusp               of               death               on               his               kitchen               floor.
               "               Yes,               I               shot               him."               He               told               the               phone.
               "----------------"
               "I'm               fine.

I'm               just               a               little               startled               is               all."
               "--------"
               "-He               broke               in."               His               voice               showed               no               recognition               as               he               spoke.

"Yes               I               can               wait               here.

I               won't               touch               him               or               anything."
               I'm               sorry               it               had               to               happen               this               way               ,               I               told               the               formerly               #1               Grandpa               mug.
               Jagged               ceramic               teeth,               said               nothing.






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