Young Writers Society

I ogled at the pieces. Eight pieces hovering about what I know recognized as a fire pole. My imagination was martyred all over again. I had known more before the onset of this fresh riddle. Now I knew I didn’t know the half of it.

“Neat-O,” I said with the arctic on my tongue, suspicion sneaking into my gut.

We slid down the pole, Malibu going first, me trailing from above, near queasy with anticipation. I wasn’t even to the bottom of the pole yet when the parts reassembled into one piece over the hole and dumped us into darkness. Some hazy back-up lights came on sooner than I reached the concrete floor of a decent-sized, square basement.

“This is it?” I demanded, suddenly swarmed by a sinking feeling that Area 51 did not house all that it was alleged to censor.

“This is it.” I repeated sullenly. I stared at the back of his greying head in my loss for words, severely disappointed in him. I’ve been scammed. By a trusted “friend.”

The drab, stony walls were congested with shelf after primitive shelf--of handguns--and besides a tub near the far end of the room, brimming with a dark treasure trove of Glocks and a polar bear imprinted on its side, the floor was barren.

. “Cummmm Awwn!” If I wasn’t so exasperated I would have burst into tears. “Measly, Fucking, HANDGUNS?”

He raised a brow. “Not reveling in its glory?”

I bristled. “It didn’t meet my Ex. Pec. Tations.”

“Yup. This is most definitely it,” he guaranteed, rubbing his hands together, “But unlike so many other things in life, this doesn’t disappoint, son.”

“What’s not downright heartbreaking about those pea shooters! You said dropping-alligators-and-rhinos-worthy!”

He was as cheerful and carefree as Larry the cucumber.

“Have a little patience. Let’s take a closer look.”

With me dogging at his heels, he moved straight ahead and selected three revolvers as if picking ripe fruit.

He displayed the first. It looked like a half-baked idea: rotatory six-chamber load, might have even been able to pass as a kid’s toy. “Guess there’s no need to explain this one,” and he scrapped it over his shoulder.

He advertised the next. “See here, this is an upgrade by far. Nice handle, plush black grip, a safety that ain’t rickety. Still gotta thumb the hammer for each shot, but don’t let that discredit the bigger chamber, explosive firepower, and of course,” he peered down the barrel at me, “better accuracy.”

You’d think an experienced gun handler would know better than to do that.

He set that back on the shelf, slipshod, and prepared to make an exhibit of the last. “Colt revolver, hand-crafted in," he turned the hand-crafted box to the side, "1869.” Then he flipped open the lid of the box it was stored in, to reveal several other utensils of some kind that resembled spoons, syringes, tuning forks, screwdrivers, and thermometers. They were plated with brass and copper (which was probably not the case when they had seen action in their day) for collectors' sakes. The one item I could barely identify appeared to be a ramrod. “...Polished handle. Beautiful. White as snow. At nine or so inches long, this was a superior muzzle in its time.” Exactly. In its day and age. “And who can resist these extravagant golden engravings?”

“Yes, vairrry deco-” I stopped with my mouth ajar. The man in front of me was transforming into a cannon.

Gutterson reared back with the mahogany box and its antique contents, lid carelessly wide open, balancing it with one big paw as if he was about to shoot a half-court shot for the win, a mighty gleam in his suddenly child-like eyes.

“Don’t do it.” I gasped, not having the ability to insert my plea with any emotion, more haunted and transfixed by the relics that were about to go airborne. I knew there was no time to prevent its tragic flight. Hopeless. Like when Dudley was surrendered up to the beast.

He didn’t disappoint. He bombed an arching beauty. “Kuuu-runch!” right into the wall. The bronze tools (as the scattered colors of copper and brass bled together) shed pinging tears over the gun’s broken form. Also just like Dudley, into that tree.

“Whudgya do that for!” I beseeched of him.

Gut gestured abstractly behind me. “Several sorts of Glocks over there,” but I didn’t bother to follow his lead. I guess I wasn’t going to get an explanation, no matter how bad I wished to pinpoint his motives.

“Ah.” I said, perplexed. “We’ve arrived at the semi-automatic station.”

Malibu just chuckled. “I figured you’d have a quip ready at a second’s notice.”

He patted me on the shoulder, then stepped back and, he umm...twirled with arms outstretched and face uplifted to the rolling blue skies like a freaking ballerina. He couldn’t make it worse, but he did. He went a caroling. “Awwwwl Theeez...” he drew out. And with one word, it was as if all the coins in the universe stood on edge, at attention, and then crashed back down when he dropped the hammer blow.

“Decoys.”

He strolled over to the left, past the tub that held the Glocks, all the way to the corner. It was empty, but did that bother Malibu? He recommended, “You can never cover your bases too much.” And then he reached for what my eyes registered as air next to a wall, and pulled a black tarp out of nowhere; underneath residing an authentic Gatling gun.

It was similar to Batman breaking out the Batmobile. There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt he was going to trample the apple cart of midnight mischief and leave the Joker with tire marks etched into his face.

“That thing works?” I huffed in a string of words.

“It’s pinned to the floor.” The Gutter grinned ear to ear. “So your answer would be no, not in the traditional sense.” He beckoned me over. “Kevin, I want you to do the honors.”

I came flying at him like a piece of flubber, ricocheting off all remotely solid surfaces. Batman was giving the keys to Robin.

“What do I do!” I exclaimed.

Malibu instructed, “Just get behind, her name is Heschita, so just get behind her and crank that crank.”

As I settled behind Heschita and gripped her chilly handle, I wondered aloud, “What’ll happen?”

“It’ll,” he spluttered to a halt to remind me, “Now I only use this for exceptional purchases. I don't use it for my personal enjoyment. Ever. Understand? DEFCON 1 rarely pops up. In the future we will not use it to go on joyrides or anything else so senseless, unless this town becomes monster heaven. Agreed?”

I pondered the contract and decided to reject his offer. Because, let’s face it: it defeated the whole purpose of having this doohickey. It wasn’t much of an offer. In fact, it was pathetic. So pathetic I nearly burst my seams laughing. It wasn’t like I could bypass that overkill security system and access it on any day of the week, so right there the contract became irrelevant.

“I’m not sure why you’re laughing,” he scolded with a pokerface, “but this is a humorless transaction. Put on your tie and pick up your suitcase.”

That was another way of telling me to grow up.

Holy humdrum heroes, Batman!

I swung an imaginary pen through the air, “The would-be scapegoat hereby refuses to sign on under Malibu’s Iron Fist.”

His frown touched the bedrock of the deepest abyss and he rumbled, “Son, this is bigger than us, but alright. You’ll learn to play by the rules someday.”

Then he muttered dejectedly under his breath, words that never reached my ear. “Hopefully it won’t be too late by the time you grasp the concept.”

“Hey, Cowpoke.” I lamented. “Eating my heart out over here.”

That probably came off as rude and ungrateful. “Since you didn’t comply with the terms,” he explicitly expressed, “all that will be divulged is this: It’ll shoot.”

Oh, well. It was worth scoffing at authority this time around. Inconvenient sure, since you didn’t get briefed, but at least you’re not tied to any promises. You still get to see what this baby can do in a sec.

I pretended to aim my shot as Gutterson stepped clear of the firing range. Harder than you’d think, to imagine a target somewhere within, or upon, a colorless slab of wall. Even harder to conceive was how much power I was being exposed to.

“Sweet.” I muttered. “I get to shoot out what I crank.”