THE LONELY WALK: CHAPTER THRITEEN

May 11, 2006, 0857 EST
Morning came with a glint of sun in his eye. Jif stirred on the bench, easing his
sore muscles. Opening his eyes, he saw the sun was only going to last two minutes; the
cloud was all gathered around it like a flock of sheep herding around a farmer. He thrust
his left wrist in front of his eyes: 0858. Jif sighed and pushed himself up. He felt sore
everywhere, even in his ass, as he sat upright. There was a jingle of keys to his right. A
redneck in his fifties held a jail ringer's set of keys in the door lock of the gun shop. Boy,
what a redneck. Brown cowboy hat, Sundance leather jacket, blue Levi's jeans. The only
thing out of place were the man's grey sandals.
"If you are waiting for the fat fighters club, it's in the Boston mall," said the
redneck with a smile. He had a Texas accent. Jif blinked his tired eyes and drew a breath,
holding back a giggle from the man's joke.
"I'd like a gun," said Jif.
"Well, you came to the right place." The redneck's movement of his mouth added
several more creases to his already wrinkled cheeks, yet his forehead was still smooth. Jif
was trying to see what hair colour he was, with what little hair was poking out of the hat.
It looked dirty brown. "What do you want?" he stabbed, peering over his shoulder as he
made his way behind the glass counter, laden with silver revolvers.
"Winchester pump!" Jif said without hesitation. He knew it was a tall order, but it
was the only weapon he felt comfortable with.
"Wow," exclaimed the redneck, pushing himself away from the counter with the
heels of his palms. "We ain't sold those in a month. You buy today, I might close early."
"Uh, what's the waiting time for this type of gun? I ain't ever had a license."
"Well, what's it for?" The redneck held up his hands at shoulder level, open to the
sky, to show it was a standard question.
"Protection. I run the Lime.Inc building down there." He pointed out of the
window to nowhere in particular, other than Federal Street. He knew he was lying; he no
longer worked there, but what did this gun salesman care? He was just here to make
money.
"No waitin' time, sonny. We all know you Limes ain't trigger-happy." He turned
his back and reached for one of the guns hooked on the wall. He picked a long, shiny
silver rifle and raised it off its mountings before turning around again with a smile and
started talking in a mocking English accent. "Cor blimey, haha." He drew a breath
through his smile and placed the massive lump of steel on the glass counter with a ching.
"Yea, I seen you before. I reckon you'd be cool." He pointed to the gun. "On me. All you
got to do is fill the license, and I'll take care of the rest. You'd be out of here in five
minutes."
Jif raised his eyebrows. This was too good to be true.
"Sounds great. Uh, can I have a look please?"
"At what? The gun?" questioned the redneck.
Before the redneck said any more, Jif already had his hands on the gun. Jif held
the Winchester across his chest, like a trophy, stroking its barrel; he breathed heavily as his heart raced. He knew the power, he knew the danger. He knew what to do. He dry fired. Click!

"How much?" Jif asked as he lowered the gun to the table again.
"Two hundred dollars."
"Done!" he said, pulling out his wallet.
"What, no haggle? Most sonnies push it down to one eighty."
"Not me. I just want a gun now."
"Well, yippy hoo!" said the Texican, doing skip hop on the spot.
"And I'll have a box of ammo as well."
The gun seller squatted down out of sight and made a shuffle of metal. He
reemerged with a red box that smelt of fireworks.
"Ten rounds," he began, "that's another twenty dollars."
Jif gazed down at the money again and pulled out another two tens from his
wallet and laid the wad of money on the table. The Texas man scooped the cash in his
hands and shuffled the bills from his right to his left, gripping his lip as he counted
silently. Finally he looked up and smiled.
"Happy to do business." Jif suddenly saw his own reflection in the man's glasses.
"Would you like a bag?"
"Yes please," replied Jif. The gunman reached for the piece and the shells with his
right hand and kept them at his hip as he sidestepped to the left. Out of sight, he tapped
some keys on a cash register, with an audible beep, before the sound of coins being
shaken filled the room as the money tray was ejected. A plastic bag was shuffled and
paper was torn. The man reappeared with a long white plastic bag with the name Hired
Guns splashed across in red.
"Have a nice day," said the Texican, bringing the gun over the counter. Jif took it
from him, lacing his fingers into the handle holes before bringing it to his waist and
opening it to look inside. The gun and ammo were there along with a tiny receipt. Jif
looked up, smiled, and turned in his heel, making for the door.
And Jif was out, with his brand-new gun!