This is a short bit of fiction for one of Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction contests. You should go check him out.
My eardrums are blown out in a cacophony of bullets. I'd put in the earplugs Perry handed me earlier if I didn't need to hear where Sammy was. Perry's huddled beside me with his hands over his ears. I hug the steel table and hold my pistol close. Perry keeps telling me "It's a revolver you jackass!" Revolver. Whatever. It sounds like every gun ever made is shooting at us. I wait for the storm of enraged bees to let up a bit so I can pop my head out. It doesn't. I fuckin' hate guns.
"You think you can just waltz in here, waive your badge around, and take ME in?! In a freakin' gun show?! You must be the stupidest fuck on the force!"
Perry tries to glare at me through squinted eyes and muted ears. I think he agrees with the guy. I'm inclined to do the same. Whatever. I just shoot the damn things, it's not like I need to be a connoisseur or nothing.
Bullets fly past my hair making me wish I had a receding hairline. I see holes in the wall the size of golf balls. What the hell are they shooting at us?
"That's a M1919 Browning machine gun! How'd they get a hold of that?!"
Thanks perry. Knew there was a reason I brought you along. Well yeah, he's the gun expert. That IS the whole reason I brought him along. Whatever. I just wish he knew how to shoot.
"Cmon out pigs! I ain't got all day!"
"We just want to know who you sold the gun to, Sammy! the uh-"
"38 Weston special!"
"Yeah that! What he said!"
The cacophony starts up again. I don't think he heard me.
"I ain't tellin' you shit man!"
Ok, so he's just an asshole. Good to know. Jesus, how many gun nut friends does he have out there? I'll tell you one thing, me and Perry are not dying here. This is too ironic a death for either of us.
I fire off a few rounds over their heads, then I throw my coat to the left of me, while I duck out on the right. They go to the bait like a swarm of flies to dung. Before I duck behind a column, I notice how many friends Sammy has. One beefy guy in a wife beater and a ponytail, one with squinty little eyes and big coke bottle glasses in a fishing vest, one in shades and a snakeskin jacket, oh wait and everyone else in the building showing their right to bear arms. Oh and they all have guns. So. Many. Guns. Just making sure they’re not throwing bullets at me.
I clip Mr. snakeskin in the shoulder to get their attention off Perry. Snakeskin drops his whatever millimeter whatever and goes down clutching his arm like the little baby he is. That’s how I’m hoping a lot of ‘em will go down.
“Now why don’t you put your toys down and come answer teacher’s question?”
“You want toys?! I’ll give you toys!”
“No toys is the opposite of what I-“
“That’s an AK-47!”
Before I can thank Perry for that oh so important piece of information, I hear a string of profanities erupt from that AC-40 Gerald’s holding.
“Are we gonna let him impede on our second amendment rights?!”
An uproar of ‘hell no’s from the yokels meets Sammy’s proclamation. And then an uproar of bullets. I look to my right and see some jackass point something long at me. I stub his toe and take it from him. Shotgun? Shotgun. One of Sammy’s bullets rips through the guy’s leg. I fire off a few rounds in Sammy’s direction. No luck.
“That’s a coach gun! You can’t use it at long range!”
What, first they got names and now they got rules? Pretty soon they’ll be wanting the right to vote. I throw the coach gun away and grab something from a nearby table, as a duck underneath. I hold it over my head for a few seconds to get Perry’s attention.
“Will this thing work?”
“That’s an M16 Assault Rifle!”
“Not answering my question!”
“YES! Shoot the thing!”
Me and Perry. We have our good times. I unload a clip in the general direction of the gun club. They scatter like silverfish. Sammy gets scared. I see him run off. I follow with my trusty pistol revolver. And then I feel something rip through my calf as the floor punches me hard. I’m bleeding, a little disoriented. I see squinty eyes walking in my general direction looking a little too happy with what he’s carrying…and what he’s about to do. I split those coke bottles in one shot.
But here’s the problem: That was my last bullet. Damn it. Should have waited till squinty eyes was closer. Sammy strolls up lookin’ like the kid who caught the bullfrog in a jar. I don’t need to know what he’s pointing at me to know what it’ll do to my insides.
“So Sammy, you ready to tell me who you sold that gun too?”
“Oh detective, you’re a funny one! You won’t be so funny when I-“
And then I see the most ridiculous thing of this whole goddamn adventure. Perry runs up with a sword-an honest to God swashbuckler’s sword-and drives it straight through Sammy’s shoulder. Sammy’s cry of pain as he goes down is Beethoven to my ears. Perry’s huffing and puffing from the adrenaline while I try to stand on my last leg.
“Perry, just who in the hell brings a knife to a gunfight?”