five bucks, brand new

He was incredibly naked and excited as he stared in to the television set. He was nervous and twitchy and the slivers from the shitty hard wood floor were digging deeper and deeper. Half way through the cricket match he realized he was nearly out of beer and would have to put some pants on if he was going to be able to sleep tonight. So out the door he went, in a bathrobe and 18 eye ladder boots. He didn't were white laces cause he was a racist, it was just a coincidence. He wondered around the old Turkish market for a while thinking about his space heater and if would last the winter or if he was going to have to move again. His job at the BBC had fallen through and things were not looking as if they were ever going to pick up again. He had lost his job, wife, and his dog. Well, he didn't so much lose his dog as he did shoot it. The first month after his wife left him left him to develop an all consuming fascination with small arms.
He had never even held a gun until one evening one the way home from the pub he was jumped by a group of Black Panthers. Danny Glover was the ring leader. Glover wedged a snub nosed .38 in between his 10th and 11th ribs as he shoved him against a brick wall and began rooting through his pockets. "Oh, Sgt. Murtaugh, deeper, deeper, I think you'll find what you're looking for." With that, Glover brought his pistol back to bash the man in the head with, but at that moment the man blacked out. The but of Glover's gun hit the brick wall and discharged, sending a round high into winter sky. Glover stood above the man for a moment laughing and kicking him in the ribs while his two followers rolled joints and recited propaganda. As he bent down to pull the man's wallet out of his acid washed blue jeans the round he had discharged earlier became infected with a fit of gravitational pull and buried itself in the small of Glover's back, not in a sexy way at all. Glover fell on the man and woke him. During the fall the gun fell from his hand and onto the sidewalk were it again discharged, ricocheted off a light pole and found itself lodged in the kneecap of one of Glover's lackeys. The stench and heat of the fresh blood against the cool sterile snow jolted the man to two feet. When he stood up he realized that he had also picked up Glover's snub nosed .38 with electrical tape wrapped around the handle. He raised the gun level with the other Black Panther's head and pulled the trigger, click. He pulled it again, click. One more pull, click. That cheap fuck, was Glover only packing two rounds? Before he had a chance to fire the last round he heard the persistent and incredibly obnoxious wail from the police siren getting closer and closer. He ran off through an alley in the opposite direction of the Black Panther and made it back to his flat without raising much suspicion. English police are incredibly lazy and when they arrived at the scene and saw two dead black men and no sign of the assailant, they called the paramedic and attributed the death to diabetes, the gun shots were said to be pre-existing conditions that did not contribute to their deaths. So this is how the man came to own his first hand gun.

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