mirror of https://github.com/nealey/Horrors2
80 lines
2.7 KiB
TeX
80 lines
2.7 KiB
TeX
\chapauth{katiekawaii}
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\chapter{Shiny Toy Gun}
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I am a man. Some may call me a beast. I am also a detective.
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Detective Luke Bavarious. I wasn't always a man. I used to be
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a young boy. Carefree. But not for long.
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It was said that when my mother gave birth I came out screaming. I
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was just like that. Maybe it was a predictor of things to come.
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Maybe. I got my first toy gun when I was nine. It was shiny
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plastic, a Beretta. Fit in my hand like a glove. Like a glove fits
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over a hand, that's how it fit in my hand. My mom
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didn't want me to have it. It was my dad's idea. My
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drunken father. He always came home late at night reeking of horrid
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vomit. He wanted me to be tough. Tough like him.
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I was always being bullied. A sixth grader, Max Attica. I told the
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principal, but she didn't care. Sometimes it seemed like no
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one did. My dad told me not to be so weak. He yelled at me one
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night, ``Don't be so weak!'' he yelled. As he said
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it I could smell the horrid stench of vomit and the stiff gin and
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tonics he always drank. Hold the tonic. It made me want to puke. I
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could see his neck exploding as his veins strained against the skin
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with every syllable. ``You gonna let that Max Attica push you
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`round, boy?''
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``N-n-o S-s-ir,'' I stammered as I sobbed and cried and
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held down my vomit. My father's vomit, which had been given
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to me with the breathing of each horrid vomit- and gin-soaked
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breath.
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No, sir. Now I had my Beretta. It was just a toy, but I could
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pretend. I had a good imagination. I took it to school with me in
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my dark black backpack. Even then I favored the dark shade of the
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night that would later be my beat in the city. It was 1953. Back
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then nobody cared if a boy played with a toy gun at school back
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then. Things are different now. I'm why things are
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different.
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It was a dark and cloudy day, the sun forced into shadow by the
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ominous clouds overhead. Max's classroom was across from
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mine, and as the bell rang and we filed inside he looked at me and
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made the gesture children make to make a threat. A finger drawn
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slowly across the neck. I imagined the blood gushing out of my neck
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in a giant waterfall. He meant business.
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I told the teacher, but like all grown-ups she didn't listen.
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Nobody listened. This was my fight and mine alone. So I made it
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mine. We came out of the classrooms for lunch. Our eyes met across
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the hall. Eyes are the windows to the soul. Mine were black. He
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came towards me with his hand twisted into a grotesque fist. I
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pulled out my toy Beretta and aimed for his face, which was twisted
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with hatred. He laughed. I pulled the trigger. There was a loud
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sound, and Max's shirt turned rust. A real bullet.
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That's impossible.
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Suddenly, I was screaming.
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