The End of Time

and Other Stories

by

MF Bishop

Copyright 2011 MF Bishop

Smashwords Edition

Freedom

The classroom was restless, with students shuffling their feet, dropping their books and whispering back and forth. The sunlit courtyard beckoned even Miss Peterson, who glanced out the window between settling the class and trying to teach. Nicky was the most restless of all, but instead of twitching he imagined he was on the jungle gym and the merry-go-round. He barely responded to Miss Peterson’s questions. But when recess finally came, his dreams of freedom ended.

“Nicolas,” Miss Peterson said, “you’ve been daydreaming all morning. Here’s a simple task to concentrate on -- I want all the erasers cleaned by the end of recess.”

“But, but, Miss Peterson.…”

“No ‘buts’, Nicolas. You’ve been neglecting your work all week and this morning you didn’t even pretend to pay attention.” She and his classmates left him by the little pile of chalky erasers.

That dumb old Miss Peterson, Nicky thought, everyone else gets to play and I’m stuck in this dumb old classroom with these dumb old erasers. He pouted for a few minutes, but he knew that if he did a good job on the erasers he would be forgiven, and if he didn’t do a good job, he would be sorry. He cleaned the erasers by banging them against the brick wall outside the classroom door. With each bump a small cloud of chalk dust puffed into the air and a fuzzy gray rectangle imprinted on the wall. The rough bricks were dirty beige but near the door they were grey from years of chalk dust. Sometimes a janitor would hose down the wall as he washed the windows, creating a chalky river flowing across the courtyard and into the playground, but the wall stayed grey.

Nicky banged an eraser hard to make a big cloud of dust. He banged an eraser soft to make a little cloud of dust. He made patterns of white rectangles on the grey bricks, a square, a couple of stars. He made a pattern that sort of looked like a car.

Through the door, the classroom was quiet. All the other children were with Miss Peterson on the playground. Nicky could hear the yelling, screaming and laughing -- the playground was only a few feet away and the whole school was out there. Sometimes a kid would run past the end of the courtyard, a blurred glimpse of freedom.

Now the erasers were clean -- a good hard thump made a cloud so small he could barely see it. Nicky gathered the erasers and put them back on the trays under the blackboards. The sounds from the playground were muffled and distant, like his parents’ radio when he was in bed late at night.

Nicky wandered around the room. He wished he was swinging from the jungle gym. He looked for something to swing from, but the room was flat and boring, the only bright spot the large bulletin board near the outside door. The bulletin board was cluttered with objects kids had brought for show and tell; an eagle feather from Montana, a picture of a Great Dane, an ornate spoon hanging from a blue ribbon, two huge moths pinned to pale green construction paper.

Nicky peered at the moths. They were almost as big as his hand, with a dull brown and grey pattern on their wings. But looked at closely the wings had an iridescent sheen. Clark Jensen had brought them in, boasting of trapping them under a hat. He protested if anyone got too close, but now he was on the playground with everyone else. The wings seemed to be made of hundreds of tiny facets that caught the light as Nicky moved his head. He gently touched one wing , then snatched his hand away and cried out as the moth moved. It fluttered weakly then was completely still. Had it actually moved? His heart pounding, Nicky touched the other moth. It too struggled briefly. The moths were alive. Each time he touched them they fluttered. They had been on display for several days, hanging from sewing pins stuck through their bodies. Nicky wondered how it felt. He looked at his own chest and imagined being skewered by a giant pin or by a spear like knights carried.

He pulled on one of the pins. It came out of the bulletin board easily, carrying the moth with it. The moth flapped its wings and swung on the shaft of the pin. Nicky quickly pulled the other moth loose and ran to the door with a moth in each hand. They didn’t move at all. They were so big he could hardly hold them in his hands. With some difficulty, he pulled the pin out of one. He winced as he did it, but the moth didn’t react. When he let it go, it fluttered a few feet and settled to the concrete, but its wings still moved. He pulled the pin out of the other moth and threw it into the air. It faltered, then climbed away, up over the building.

The bell rang, signaling the end of recess. Loud voices and running feet came toward the courtyard. Nicky hurriedly picked up the first moth and flung it as high as he could. It flapped its wings a few times and glided across the courtyard, out of sight. Nicky rushed to his seat.

Getting the children settled took some time, as Miss Peterson admonished some and finally demanded general quiet. Nicky was already quiet. Miss Peterson checked a couple of erasers and said, “Nicolas, you did a good job.” Nicky looked at his desk, then glanced at the bulletin board. The bare spot where the moths had been was huge. The class was fairly quiet. Miss Peterson sighed, looked out the window, shifted in her chair and picked up a book.

“All right, class,” she said, “let’s learn some multiplication.…”

“Aaah,” Clark Jensen’s nasal whine filled the room. Nicky pulled his head between his shoulders and looked hard at his desk. “Miss Peterson,” Clark screamed, “my moths are gone, somebody took my moths.” Nicky clenched his shaking hands.

Miss Peterson put the book down. “My goodness,” she said, “so they are.” She raised her voice. “Does anyone know anything about this?”

Clark started to cry. “They were there this morning,” he blubbered, “I made sure they were stuck there good.”

Nicky hunched his shoulders, bit his lip and looked at his desk.

“Clark, be quiet,” Miss Peterson said. She looked at Nicky. “Nicolas, do you know anything about this?” Nicky couldn’t move. He managed a barely perceptible nod.

“You come with me, young man.” Miss Peterson grabbed Nicky’s arm and pulled him through the inside door into the hall.

Clark was still howling and Nicky felt like doing a little howling himself. Miss Peterson pulled him around to face her.

“Nicolas, I thought I could trust you to be in the room by yourself. I can’t imagine what’s gotten into you, but I intend to find out. Now, the first thing you can do is give Clark back his moths.”

Nicky looked at the floor. “I can’t,” he muttered.

“You can’t? Why not?”

“I let them go.”

“Let them go?”

“Yes!” Nicky started to cry. Furious at himself, but still crying, he said, “They were alive, Miss Peterson, I touched one and it moved and I touched the other one and it moved and they were alive and pinned up there on the wall and, and I took them down and, and they flew away.” All this was choked out between sobs. Now his nose was running.

Miss Peterson sighed and pulled a tissue from her sleeve. While Nicky blew his nose, she stuck her head into the room and said, “Glued to your seats, all of you. I want every one of you glued to your seat.” Once everyone was quiet in their seats, she turned back to Nicky.

“Nicolas,” she said gently, “those moths belonged to Clark. You had no right to let them go. I’m sure you meant well, but rules are rules, and we are not to touch someone else’s things.”

“They were alive,” Nicky whispered, “I wondered how it felt, maybe it hurt.” He hung his head and watched tears drip off the end of his nose and splash on the tile floor.

“You can’t just do whatever you want.” Her tome sharpened. “I’m sorry, I wish I didn’t have to do this, but those moths belonged to Clark and you took them. I don’t have any choice; you’ll have to see Mr. Connor.”

The principal! Nicky choked, afraid he was going to throw up.

“Ask Mr. Connor to send Karen to watch the class, and I’ll come and tell him what has happened.” Miss Peterson closed the classroom door behind her. The hall was a long, straight shaft with closed doors at intervals on either side. At the end, so far away it was almost a point, was the door to the principal’s office. Behind the door Mr. Connor waited. Nicky began the long, long walk.

My Growing Up Summer

Captain Allbright, talk about an incident in your life that stands out - some important event that helped make you who you are.

Alexa answers: I think the summer after I turned fourteen -- that was when I realized I had to solve my own problems. And I had problems to solve. My sister was ten years older ; by the time I was fourteen, she was married and gone. That left me and my brothers at home. Frank was nineteen that year, while Sean was two years older than me and Billy was two years younger. I don’t think Sean and Billy were bad kids, but Frank was an asshole. Still is, as far as I know.

We always fought, especially Frank and me. I held my own pretty good for a long time and hurt him as much as he hurt me. But the last few years, he encouraged the other boys to join in -- they ganged up on me, and that was hard to take.

For years, I put most of my energy into growing, but that summer Frank noticed I was getting breasts and hips. During one of our fights, Frank pinched my breasts and pulled up my dress. The other two just laughed and hit me, but they looked, too, and made remarks about my ‘titties’. I outran them and stayed with a girlfriend for a couple of days.

I was in trouble. Whenever I complained to the folks about Frank or the others picking on me, Pop just said ‘boys will be boys’ and Mom accused me of starting it. No help there. Those two days I hid out, I thought about it, and decided I had to do something.

The first step was to even the odds. I caught Billy alone and roughed him up a little. I told him that was just a taste of what he would get if he ever bothered me again. He didn’t believe me and went crying to Frank. Frank caught me on the way home from school. He didn’t really do much, just slapped me and told me what he was going to do to me. He was very graphic and had a lot more imagination than I thought.

I couldn’t stop, though. I had told Billy what would happen to him, and if I didn’t keep my word I was screwed in more ways than one. I knew where Billy cut through an alley after playing basketball in the park. I waited for him there. After reasoning with him for ten minutes or so, I left him lying in a pile of garbage. Actually I hurt him worse than I intended; Pop had to take him to the hospital. Frank was totally pissed and was sure that I did it. But Billy got smart and stuck to a story that it was a bunch of guys he met playing basketball.

Sean walked part way to school by himself, before he joined up with his buddies. I scouted the route, worked out a little plan, and tested it a couple of times late at night. On the big morning, I got up early and made it to the right spot ahead of Sean. There were a couple of tree limbs arranged just right -- about ten feet off the ground and five feet apart. A two-by-four put across the limbs was parallel to the sidewalk and just above the only place to walk -- bushes on one side and broken paving on the other forced everyone to the same place.

I put the far end of the two-by-four barely on its limb. I tied a cord to the other end and swung it into the neighboring tree. I crouched up there, holding the cord, and waited for Sean. He came swaggering along, right on time. When he crossed the mark I had made on the sidewalk, I pulled on the cord. The board slipped off the branch and swung like a six-foot club, right into Sean’s face. Wham! Flattened him! Broke his nose, split his lip, knocked out a tooth.

After throwing the board into the bushes, I skinned down the tree and ran up to Sean, yelling bloody murder, him laying there on his back with blood pouring down his face. Actually, I was scared, I thought maybe I had killed him. He wasn’t even out cold, but he didn’t know what the hell had happened to him. People came running up, and someone called the fire department rescue truck. I sat on the sidewalk and held his head in my lap until they came. I told him that now he knew how it felt to be hit and hurt, and maybe after this he would leave me alone. I told him how bad it would be if anything else happened to him, and how I hoped this little talk would be just between us. He never bothered me again, or even said two words to me again, but we were never a close family.

Frank took some thought. He was stronger and meaner than the other two. He was athletic, liked to ride one of those off-road bicycles. So I loosened the front wheel on his bike. It came off as he was going over a jump down by the Charles. He broke his right arm in two places and got a pretty serious concussion. He was in traction for three days. I visited him in the hospital when I knew our folks wouldn’t be there.

At first he wouldn’t talk to me, but I got his attention by fooling with the weights on the traction doohickey. I told him how lucky he was that it wasn’t his car. After all, I said, a wheel could fall off his car, or some other important part, and then where would he have been? Then I talked about how I never wanted him to touch me again. Once his arm healed, he moved to Albany and got a job in a cabinet shop.

I joined the Army right out of high school. I’ve talked to the folks on the phone a few times, but I’ve never gone back to Boston.

A Real Man

Pete Hamlin loved his guns. He loved the solid heft and feel, the precise design and construction, the noise and jar of the recoil. A well-crafted gun was dependable.

Pete often said, “Take good care of your gun and it will take good care of you.” Pete took good care of his guns. He used them most nights after work, firing one hundred or one hundred fifty rounds at the gun club indoor range, then cleaning them carefully.

His love and care won him the gun club rapid fire championship three years running. He was practicing now to take the title for an unprecedented fourth consecutive year. He caressed the Ruger, squeezing off the last three rounds.

The range attendant reeled in the five targets as Pete slipped off his shooting muffs.

“Good shooting, Mister Hamlin,” he said, “four sets in, the other two very close.”

Only since he was some kind of Latino, he said, “Meestair ‘ahmleen” and “wery closeh.” Pete grinned to himself. Years in this country, and the wetback still couldn’t speak decent English.

“I’ve got to do better than that, George, to hold on to the championship.” The man frowned slightly as he always did when Pete called him ‘George’ but Pete wasn’t going to make a fool of himself stumbling over some foreign moniker.

Pete laid the Ruger .22 in its case. Now for some fun, some feel-like-a-real-man fun. He pulled his M96 Mauser from its wooden holster and cradled it gently, admiring the long, thin barrel and the rounded grip that gave the pistol its ‘broomhandle’ nickname. This gun looked like a gun should look, a real classic, designed in 1896. Pete’s gun had been manufactured in 1916 for the German Army, and carried into battle by a German infantry officer in the final German World War I offensives in 1918.

Pete carefully loaded the gun. Ten nine millimeter rounds held by a ‘stripper’ clip fed into the top of the magazine mounted just in front of the trigger guard. He hefted the piece as he waited for George to run out the target. At eleven inches long and 46 ounces, the Mauser was only a little bigger than the Ruger, but the long barrel and blocky magazine looked huge.

The targets stopped, five man-sized silhouettes with bulls-eyes on their chests. A gun this size required a two-handed stance. Pete aimed and fired each shot deliberately. The damn thing kicked like a mule, the huge hammer slamming back and forth. He pulled the Mauser back into line after each shot. Standard rapid fire - five shots in eight seconds, one target after another, counting carefully, five more shots, eight more seconds. Reload, then fire two five shot sets in six seconds each, reload again, fire five more rounds in four seconds and a final five rounds in four seconds.

That was the end of the standard firing sequence, but he reloaded one more time and fired off the clip one-handed, standing like Cary Grant in some old western. When the magazine was empty, he resisted the impulse to blow the smoke off the barrel.

This was by God the way fun ought to be. Pete considered firing a few more clips. Better not, he was late already, and he never knew what fool thing Marie would do if he wasn’t home to keep an eye on her.

George reeled in the targets. Pete slipped off his shooting muffs and glanced at the results. Not bad, nothing like the Ruger, but for an old gun with a horrific recoil, not bad at all.

Stepping to the bench in the back room, Pete started to clean the gun, then frowned as he ran a soft cloth over the Mauser. There was a small nick in the wooden grip. Damn! His first reaction was anger at the club, but he never let anyone else touch his guns, so somehow he must have done it. Well. it would polish out. He finished cleaning both the Mauser and the Ruger.

“Good bye, Mister Hamlin,” George laid the targets on the bench and held out his hand.

Pete looked at the hand, surprised and a little offended. “What?” he asked.

“Good bye,” George repeated, “tomorrow is my last day. I am going back to Puerto Rico. My mother, she is sick.”

“Oh,” Pete said, “well, good bye, George, good luck.” He shook hands very lightly. He didn’t like to touch these foreigners, you never knew what diseases they might have.

A thought came to Pete, not quite formed, not a plan, just the thought that it would be good to take the gun home to work on it. Pete pulled two twenties from his billfold.

“Well damn, George,” he smiled, “good luck. Here’s a little going away present.”

Jorge accepted the money with a small smile and waited. He knew well enough that Pete would want something in return.

“Oh, George,” Pete continued casually, “I need to take the Mauser home and work on it. Nothing said, no harm done, eh?”

“Sure, Mr. Hamlin,” George said. He pocketed the money. Pete could take the gun without checking it out. Not checked out, not checked in. No one would ever know it had been gone.

This was against club rules, and it was certainly against the rules of the City of New York, but he had done it before and he would do it again. To hell with their rules.

The Mauser came with a bulky wooden holster that could be clipped to the back of the grip and used as a stock. In the empty locker room, Pete arranged the holster so it hung between his legs, put on his overcoat and checked the effect in the full-length mirror. Damn! The bulk of the holster spoiled the lines of his tailored overcoat.

He pulled and rearranged, remembering his mother’s words, spoken so often as she tidied his clothes or tried out some new and stylish item.

“Peter,” she would say, “God knows you’ll never be a big man, but you can always be a well-dressed man.” Or sometimes the litany, “Your father was big, he was a big, husky man. I don’t understand what happened to you, short and scrawny as you are. But he was an untidy man, Peter, a big, sloppy man. I could never do a thing with him. At least you’re neat, and a snappy dresser.”

Those memories and others like them came often, and his cheeks would burn as her words played themselves back. He didn’t understand the sense of embarrassment and vague shame. His mother loved him, wanted only the best for him, had taught him to dress well and carry himself proudly, even if he was... not as tall as some men.

He continued to adjust the holster and the coat. There, that was a little better, but he needed to wear something that wasn’t so nicely cut.

The feelings of embarrassment were probably Marie’s fault. He knew she looked down on him for being... not so tall, even if she never said anything. She was taller than he was in heels, so she never wore heels, the condescending bitch. That reminded him, he’d better get home to see what kind of mess she’d made today.

Walking was a little awkward, but he liked the hard, heavy feel of the gun between his legs. He liked it so well he kept it on in the car, letting the holster drape over the front of the seat.

He felt good on the drive in to New York, so good that he didn’t bother to weave in and out, didn’t cut anybody off and only once screamed curses at another driver.

His mood broke when he got to his apartment house. Pylons blocked the entrance to the apartment garage door. A man sitting in a chair got up, approached the car.

“Can’t park now, buddy,” he said, “the automatic opener broke.”

“Then open the damned thing by hand,” Pete snapped.

The man smiled thinly. “The door weighs over 1000 pounds,” he said, “we’ll have....”

“I have to park my car,” Pete said.

“It’ll be a couple of hours, Jack....”

“Shit!” Pete shouted, “Shit!” He threw the BMW into reverse and squealed the tires pulling into the street. The man shook his fist and yelled something. Pete flipped him the bird and gunned the car down the street.

There was no way he would find a place to park this time of night. Would he have to drive the damn car around for two hours? He cruised down the street for several blocks, back on the next street, the wooden holster bumping the steering wheel every time he stepped on the brake.

Fifteen minutes of this brought him to a parking spot. The area was seedy industrial, the streets dark and potholed, the walk to his apartment at least a mile. He squeezed the BMW into the space, muttering curses and threats.

With the car finally at rest, he considered his options. Leaving the car alone on the street didn’t appeal at all, but sitting out here for two hungry hours appealed even less. Crummy neighborhood, too. He felt a tingle of fear, then remembered the gun that bulked between his legs.

“Let the fuckers try something,” he muttered aloud as he got out of the car. Setting the alarm, he walked briskly down the outer edge of the sidewalk, his right hand inside his coat, resting on the gun.

But the only people he saw were a couple coming out of a restaurant a block from the apartment. The garage door was still closed, the man still sitting in the chair. Pete entered the building, went to the super’s apartment, beat on the door.

No answer, no sound, but Pete knew Mrs. Gonesh was there, behind the door.

“I want that garage open pronto, Mrs. Gonesh, “he yelled. “Pronto.” He liked the sound of the word. “And you call me when it’s fixed,” he added, “and damn pronto.”

Feeling that he had the situation at least partly under control, he rode the elevator to his floor, mulling the letter of complaint he would send to the property management company. If Mrs. Gonesh thought being an old lady would let her get away with incompetence, she had another think coming.

Marie met him at the door.

“I turned dinner off,” she said, “it was getting dry. I’ll warm it up....”

“Ten minutes,” he snapped as he walked to his den holding his coat around him. The door closed and locked, he slipped off his coat and unbuckled the holster. His legs felt bruised from the wood. He pulled the gun out and laid it on the desk, peered at the nick in the grip. How could that have happened he wondered, was that greaser at the gun club getting into his locker? Well, never mind, the guy was swimming back across the border and the damage would buff out.

He washed up and sat at the table, Marie silently dished up the lasagna and salad. He tasted it.

“It’s cold,” he said, “ and the sauce is runny.”

“You’re forty minutes late,” Marie said from the other end of the table.

Now is own wife was mouthing off! He sat up straight.

“Shut up,” he said, “I’m tired of your bitching. You’re a poor excuse for a cook. If I waited for a good meal from you, I’d starve.”

Marie ate silently, her eyes on her plate. Her mouth quivered but she didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried much in the last few years.

The lasagna was quite tasty; Pete had three helpings. Keeping at her worked wonders. If he let up she’d get complacent and sloppy and even fatter than she was.

When he finished, he left her at the table. In the den, he worked carefully on the stock, smoothing out the nick with garnet paper. He took a break to make sure Marie did a decent job of cleaning up, then went back to the gun, rubbing in wood finish oil until the buffed area blended completely with the rest of the grip. He stripped the gun, then reassembled it. Each precise piece of metal was like a small work of art, the ‘snick’ as it slipped into place part of its song. But when they all sing together, he thought as he sighted down the barrel, the chorus, that’s the most beautiful music.

The look and feel of the weapon was vaguely exciting; he felt himself harden as he slipped it into the holster. Maybe tonight Marie could do him some good.

She was already in bed, breathing evenly, pretending to be asleep, the rejecting bitch. Slipping naked into bed, he pulled her nightgown up, fumbled at her breasts.

She was silent, unmoving. He nuzzled at her, squeezed her flesh. His erection was so hard it hurt. He pushed her legs apart, willing himself into her. But at the very moment, it slipped away. He felt himself start to soften, no, no, then in an instant go completely limp.

“Damn you, Marie,” he snarled, “you frigid bitch. You can’t even get this right.”

“I, I’m sorry,” she whispered, “here....” She reached for him. He drew away.

“Never mind,” he said bitterly, “I don’t need anything from a cow like you.” She started to cry, little muffled sobs. At least I have some effect on her, he thought with satisfaction.

He went into the bathroom, stood over the toilet. His erection came back immediately. As soon as I get away from that cow, he thought as he touched himself and began to stroke. He came quickly, release that forced a little cry of pleasure.

For a moment he relaxed, standing in the bathroom still holding his limp penis. Then the tension returned. He stood up straight, washed himself off. He wanted to move the car, no point in going to bed. He could work on the gun...no, he had repaired the nick, cleaned the gun. He felt a little disappointed.

He decided to think about a more practical holster. The Mauser’s wooden holster looked good - very crisp and military - and snapped on the back of the gun to form a stock. He played with that feature for awhile, enjoying the precise action as the stock fitted to the gun. But the holster was too bulky to fit easily under his coat. Something that would sling from his shoulder ... he dug some catalogues out of his desk. Maybe a Blocker shoulder rig with a few modifications. He sketched some ideas, humming softly.

It was past midnight by the time he had worked out a possible approach. Might as well check on the garage door.

“Yeah, that’s it,” one of two men in coveralls wiped his hands on a rag while the other one piled tools into the back of a pickup.

“It’s about damn time,” Pete muttered and turned away. Now to get the car under cover and finally go to bed. He stopped and thought - a long walk in the middle of the night to a deserted part of town? It took only a few minutes to go back up to the apartment. Leaving the holster, he dropped the gun into an outside pocket of his overcoat, where it sagged and banged against his leg.

A cold wind blew trash through the streets. The dark streets, with no people and few cars that became no cars at all before he reached the BMW.

He was parked next to a long blank wall. The sound filtered down the wall, murmurs, crunching footsteps. The crunch of broken glass? What the hell!

Quickening his pace, he clutched the gun to keep it from banging against his leg, and for comfort. The murmuring turned into words, he could see figures moving slowly around the car.

Damn! How many were there? He paused as fear caught in his throat, twisted his stomach. The dome light flickered briefly. Two, no, three men. One ducked beneath the dash as another held a small flashlight. Stealing the radio? Hot wiring the ignition? Those assholes had broken into his car!

The fear made his hands tremble, his legs weak. He curled his lip in self disgust. Real men weren’t afraid. He had a gun! And he still stood here afraid like some weak, whining girl.

One of the men laughed. Pete let the safety off the gun still heavy in his coat pocket and rushed forward.

“Hey,” he yelled. His voice cracked, “that’s my car.”

“Que?” one man said.

Another stood slowly up. “Not anymore, man” he said, “its mine now.”

An accent! Spics! Dirty little spics were smearing their dirty little paws over his car!

He had his hand on the gun in his pocket, finger on the trigger. His heart beat in his chest, the top of his head, the soles of his feet.

The other two climbed out of the car, lounged against the front.

“Just move along, damn you. Get away from my car.” His voice shook, but he moved closer, hating his cowardice.

The three men slouched to the center of the sidewalk. He saw they were young, boys rather than men, but two of them were beefy, muscled under a layer of fat.

“You jus’ keep movin’ y’self, man,” the small one drawled.

Pete’s knees were water, his stomach a yawning pit of fear. He clutched the gun in his quivering hand.

Don’t shoot yourself in the foot, he thought, but he said, “Get away from my car.”

“You askin’ for it, man,” the small one said, and pulled up his shirt to show a small revolver stuck in his belt.

A gun, a pissant little gun! Three of them to his one and they tried to scare him with a piddly little .22!

He lifted the Mauser out of his pocket, a huge pistol, make six of that toy .22, brought it up in a smooth arc, all fear gone, and fired at the boy with the gun. The muzzle flash lit up their shocked faces, the report echoed down the street. The 9mm slug hit the boy in the chest, throwing him back.

The Mauser had a kick like a mule, and the recoil forced the gun up. He grabbed it with both hands and fired again and again, pulling the gun back into line, picking his shots as if on the target range.

He had the second one down before they could react. The third greaser dirtbag turned and ran. Pete put two rounds into his back, sending him sprawling on his face.

The sounds faded away, the sharp smell of powder hung in the air. The three tough guys were silent lumps, dark against the sidewalk. Blood ran over the curb into the gutter.

Pete said, “Fuck you, Pancho, and the donkey you rode in on.”

What if the car doesn’t start, he thought, but it did and the only damage was a broken driver side window and some scratches around the radio. He pulled away, leaving the lights off for a couple of blocks.

The shakes returned momentarily and he was afraid he would have to pull over. But they passed and then he felt wonderful, strong, brave. He wanted to drive fast, screech around corners, fire the Mauser into the air. This was what a real man felt like!

But he had to get the car out of sight until the window could be fixed. There was glass on the street. The cops might put things together..

In not many minutes he was back in the apartment, the BMW parked against a wall in the garage to hide the broken window. Too excited to sleep, he paced from room to room, reliving the glorious moments when he, with his own hands ! Blasted those wetbacks straight to Hell!

Sometime during the night he got another erection. He thought about Marie, but to hell with that fat bitch. He masturbated and relived the flash and report and ferocious recoil. And the sudden fear on their faces....

He finally fell asleep at his desk, his head next to the Mauser. Worn out as he was, he woke up and watched the early news. No mention of three ex-greasers.

Calling in sick, Pete spent the day repairing the broken window. He drove all the way to Philadelphia and paid cash - too much cash, but whatthehell, it was for a good cause - found a secluded spot off the turnpike and put the glass in, a bitch of a job. More than once he swore at the Mexicans and wished he could shoot them again.

Tedious days. He went to work and dealt with his idiot boss and whining subordinates. He went home and put up with that fat cow Marie. The power of That Night began to fade.

He went to the gun club often and fired his other guns, but it wasn’t the same. He wanted the bark and flash and kick of the Mauser, but if he brought it in then he would have to check it out. Only George knew he hadn’t checked the Mauser out, and George was back in Puerto Rico.

It wouldn’t be the same, anyway. It wasn’t just the gun, it was the targets. He wanted fear, blood, power. Not little holes in cardboard silhouettes.

He built the leather holster and wore the Mauser around the apartment when Marie was off to one of her silly classes or meetings on saving the spotted owl or other damn fool things. The gun itself he kept wrapped in a blue silk scarf that he had given Marie as an anniversary present. The gun deserved it a hell of a lot more than she did. He would wrap up the gun and lock it in his desk when he heard her at the door, then feel resentful and snappish.

Unable to sleep, he went for a long walk past The Spot, the gun hung on his shoulder. Maybe those dirtbags have friends. But he didn’t meet anybody at all.

He called in sick the next day. It was the second time in two weeks, but what the hell. He worked hard and deserved some time for himself. He went for a walk down by Times Square. He didn’t like being without the gun, but he was afraid to cart it around in daylight.

A woman caught his eye. A big woman, with tits out to there, but not fat.

“Hey, lover,” she said, “want a date?”

Sure, why not, he thought, his restless strength running through him. Make a change from...that pig Marie.

“Sure, why not,” he said, “how much?”

“Hundred bucks,” she answered, hooking her arm in his, “and worth every dime.”

Damn. A c-note. But he had over two hundred in his pocket, so what the hell.

The dirty hotel room smelled of cigarettes and marijuana. Pete’s ‘date’ whipped off her clothes and held out her arms.

“C’mon big boy,” she said.