He's got a gun.
He's got a fucking gun in his fucking hand.

It's gleaming under the fluorescent light and shining like it's brand new, like two minutes ago he just hopped and skipped over to the corner store down the street and smiled to the cashier as he paid for it in unmarked dollar bills. And the cashier just smiled back, said "Have a nice day." and handed him the damn thing like it was candy, jelly beans and bubble gum. He's holding it. In his hand. In plain view of the whole goddamn world. And yet,

no one notices.

They don't even look at him.
They just keep walking around, minding their own business. As if it doesn't even matter. As if no one is in danger right now. He could shoot us all up. Just aim, pull the trigger and BANG:
You're dead, I'm dead. We're all dead. There'd be screaming and crying and sirens everywhere. Extra, Extra: Man Opens Fire in a Crowd of Fucking Idiots.

I don't understand.
He's got a gun in his hand, his finger on the trigger and no one is saying anything. No screaming, no crying, not even a police siren.
Nothing.

This guy. In a suit, on a cell phone. The real executive type.
He brushes right past him, grazing the arm holding the weapon. And he just keeps right on barrelling through like he has somewhere more important to be.
Like he could not have just gotten shot the fuck up.

I would have. If I was him.
I would've shot the oblivious bastard right in the back, watch him stagger and freeze, his mouth dropping open as he falls to his knees. The person on the other line would be going,
"Hello? Hello? What the fuck's going on, George?" as his finals thoughts become: Hey, did that guy have a gun?
No shit.

What's wrong with these people?
It's not like he's even concealing it. It's in his hand. In his fucking hand. Like night against his pale-ass skin. I can see it. I can see it damn well too.

Arrogant son of a bitch.
He's just standing there, like he doesn't even care if anyone sees it. Like he's testing them, seeing how long it takes for some havoc to start a-wreaking.
Idiots.
They're all fucking idiots. Them for not noticing and him for not giving a shit.

(What the hell is he waiting for?)

Pussy.
I mean come on, it's not everyday you wake up and decide to hold a gun in a crowded room. Might as well get on with it. But no, of course he's just holding it, his grip loose, his fingers caressing the barrel like it was his girlfriend. His girlfriend of seven years who he strangled to death this morning. She was a talker.
Blah, blah this. Blah, blah that.
Come on, Larry, do it right. Don't mess it up again, Larry. Not there, Larry. Right there, Larry.
FUCK ME, LARRY.

God, he loved her.

It's been a solid two minutes and still no one has even passed him a glance.
What, is he ugly or something? Is he so fucking disgusting that no one will look at him even though he's got a gun in his hand? People, please. He could kill you. Don't you think you should at least cause a bit of a scene? Jump behind pillars and fall to the floor, your heart slamming in your chest because you've never once thought that you'd end up having death stare you right in the fucking eye.

Oh, I get it.
He's not good enough for you to get all worked up over. I mean, look at him. He's a fucking loser. He's wearing plaid. What self-respecting guy wears fucking plaid? She bought it for him, you know. She said "I like it." And because of that he wore it almost everyday, even though he knew it made him look like a tool.

He always did shit like that for her. Always.
And what did she do in return? Everything.
But who cares.

God, look at the time.
That security guard is standing over there, self-righteous and with a smug smile on his face like he knows everything. I bet he thinks that the world is his toilet and I bet he feels like taking a shit. Wipe your asshole and do your damn job, how about that? Do you understand what is going on? Do you understand that everyone in this building could potentially be killed? Right now?! Of course he doesn't. They all don't.

It's pissing me off.
They still haven't noticed. How long until they realize that he is going to kill us all?
Pull the alarm! Call the police! At least cower in a corner or get the fuck out of here.

That's it. I'm gonna do it.
I'm gonna tackle him and try to get the gun away. I'm gonna ram into him so hard, it'll fall from his hands, skip across the floor and hopefully land far away from any kids. They'll call me a hero. They'll say I saved the day. I'll get the keys to the city, my picture in the paper, and a big fat fucking million dollar cheque.
If they all realize, of course.

A woman, blonde hair, yellow summer dress.

She stops a few feet in front of him with these beautiful, big hazel eyes that make her face look out of this world, like she isn't real.
Her lips are that rose-y color; not the kind you can buy at the mall in those little tubes made of shiny stuff, which I never fully understood why women wear, I mean, what do you need it for anyway?

She's got the kind of rose-y lips that can open slightly and let out a moan that'll give you a hard on for days. The kind that can kiss you in that special place while you both fuck away to the soundtrack of that one romantic comedy. The kind that forms the perfect "O" when your hands crush her, making her suffocate the way you have all your life. Slowly, so slowly.
She looks just like her.

Fuck what they say about it all being a blur and happening so fast.
It was as if the world was running down a hill and began to stop, gradually losing speed until it froze.
Her eyes went wide.
Her eyes narrowed.
She drew in a breath.
She let out a sigh.
She opened her mouth.
She shook her head.

HE'S GOT A GUN.
FUCK ME, LARRY.
OH MY GOD, HE'S GOT A GUN!
FUCK ME HARD, LARRY!
EVERYONE, HE'S GOT A GUN!
FUCK. ME.

I shot her.
I strangled her.
Tomay-toe, tomah-toe.

So, people start screaming. They're running around everywhere, hands in the air, children against the breast.
I hear an alarm in the background. And a kid just pissed himself.
Thank you all for paying such close attention.

But who gives a shit now?
It's over.

It's all fucking over.


A/N: Hmmm...