How my Life Changed After I Bought a Gun

Disclaimer: The opinions, views, actions etc. of this character in no way reflect my opinions, views, or actions. I simply thought this would be an interesting story to write. It is pure fiction and should be read as such. Please do not mistake this character’s sadistic nature as a reflection of myself.

How my Life Changed After I Bought a Gun pt. 1

If you’re twenty-two, bored and thinking of reinventing yourself or at least pretending to you might want to consider buying a gun. That’s what I did.

I had just moved back to San Jose after graduating from Fresno State. Started out living in my uncle’s basement with nothing to do expect get high with my high school friends who would later turn out to not really be my friends, get high by myself, workout, try to get laid off of Tinder, watch porn, watch shitty youtube, and work a job as a dishwasher at a cafe downtown.

With all my extra time I decided to start lifting a a lot of weights and take a lot of that creatine monohydrate crap that really rips your arms and gut up. It makes you girthy but chiseled. Like a grated block of cheddar, that’s how I think of it anyway.

I got stoned all the time. I would sit in my basement and vape these THC oils that would put me into a fucking coma while I watched shitty Youtube. Bored into misery with crunched potato chips and burnt roaches laying around my bed and my carpet floor.

Anyway, my grandma died and then I had enough money on my hands from her estate to buy something big, you know, something substantial. I wanted a piece. A 9mm. One of those big chocolate bar looking ones that you see cops waste people with on CNN. You know? You see a graphic of it on the upper right corner of your screen when Nancy Grace is screaming at you about some toddler being wasted with it?

So I went to a Big 5 Sporting Goods and I bought this thing for like $250. The cashier asked why I was buying it. I told him I was trying to be a vigilant citizen he agreed with my moral reasoning and then praised lord Trump with fervor. I bought my bullets and then walked out holster on n’everything.

There was this dime piece standing outside she was sipping on this iced coffee from Starbucks or something. She had to be about 5’8” tight nice tight ass, slim bony shoulders, wavy blonde hair, big sunglasses, she was wearing one of those shoulder cut blouses that looked like could fall off at any moment especially on a figure like hers. The thing about tits for me is that they don’t have to be huge. Just supple and enough, not saggy and grotesque for the sake of size, You know? I never understood guys who are obsessed with huge tits.

I think she saw me with my holster and kind of smiled at me, I smiled regardless just in case she was. I was in a class last quarter and this kid did research on cops engaging in bad behavior, or breaking the law, or screwing up in general and he found that a lot of them end up banging a lot of suburban housewives while on duty because all they do all day is drive around suburbs with no crime but a shit ton of bored horny housewives who want a macho gun cock in their wet maternal pussies.

I on the other hand was closing in on not having sex for a year. So I bought a gun and a silencer.

I didn’t know what to do with it. It just sat in its case for three months. I would take it out sometimes, unloaded. Play with it in the mirror. Take pictures of it. Take pictures with it against my head or in other positions. I liked to pose naked with it. Sometimes I thought about blowing my brains out. But that’s not really important.

Washing dishes at a restaurant is awful. I worked four days a week and got shit pay to work the hardest out of every other gender neutral barista there. I would come home smelling of rancid food and curdled milk every day, my hands would feel rubbery and raw from dipping them in hot caustic, basic soaps and detergents for six hours straight. My upper vertebrates felt tight and sore as if they were preparing to completely fold. On top of that, the jerk owner always seemed to show up in the kitchen whenever I was adjusting a song on my phone or eating some pastry the baker likes to shove in my mouth. He’s a really nice guy by the way, the baker not the owner, he moved here from Latvia in the 80’s and has been baking ever since, his pastries are dope.

If you think ignorance is bliss don’t ever go to the back of a kitchen in a restaurant. This one in particular had the dish-pit haphazardly positioned right next to where Alex, the baker, prepared all his pastries. So while I was blasting everyone’s half eaten food and rancid warm milk tiny particles of wet trash would fly up in the air and more or less end up in the dough poor Alex was trying to roll. Obviously everything was baked in an oven but still, if you eat there it’s very well that you may be consuming small burnt particles of half eaten trash.

I felt better when I didn’t show up so one day I came into work and some loser was washing the dishes that used to be part of my routine. The head chef gave me my last check and I walked out of there laughing.

In fact I laughed so hard for so long that after I stopped laughing I remembered that I still needed to make money. I needed five hundred dollars before June or else I was out of the basement. So I went to an REI and bought a bunch of cold weather clothes. I had one of those ski mask that has the three holes, real cliche shit but it all worked. I bought this small pair of binoculars as well and a five inch hunting knife. I also bought a few of those cholo neckerchief things with the patterns on them.

Everyone is isolated in San Jose. A million people live here but you might as well be completely alone. In the neighborhood I was living there was a busy street close by with a CVS, a Peet’s, Starbucks, some auto shops, and a Whole Foods right before downtown with an outdoor bar along the street. So i posted myself across the street from this Whole Foods bar with my binoculars. I was trying to find someone who would be wasted enough and have enough cash and or expensive shit to be worth jumping. It was around 9 P.M.

There was this guy who obviously thought he was cool from by the way he dressed himself and the tattoo that he had on the right side of his neck I always saw him drinking at Whole Foods trying to talk to teenage girls, every time I saw him he was creeping on one of them. He was skinny and smoked cigarettes. Probably around 24 or 25. I used to see him in and around things growing up. He went to some school south of mine but I never knew his name. Skinny. Really skinny. He was the type of liberal Californian kid whose manhood had never been properly challenged be it in work or throwing hands. Raised by some new money tech hippies. Anyway, this didn’t stop him from swinging some real cute nubile specimens. I used to see him smoking and drinking almost every other night at the Whole Foods bar down the street from my place. I figured he had enough designer shit on him to sell on eBay and/or enough cash to partially cover my rent.

I posted myself across the street from the Whole Foods for a good two hours as he slowly drank himself to a stupor and smoked multiple bummed cigarettes. With all the nicotine, alcohol, and scarred lung that he had he wouldn’t be able to keep his balance and he was already weak as it was so knocking him out or restraining him wouldn’t pose a problem if he tried to run. Wasn’t the knife type either. Didn’t see it. Most of those guy have some meat on their arms or look ready to throw hands. You know who can and can’t throw it’s just something people carry with them and he didn’t carry it. He was limp, effeminate, naive, easy.

Midnight now. He looked like he was making his rounds saying goodbye to all his drinking buddies. I was lucky. He wasn’t going home with anyone that night. He started walking up the street close to the industrial area where there are a lot of warehouses and not a lot streetlights. He walked right into the dark, and I followed. I ran to the other side of the block so I could surprise him from the front.

I could see his silhouette approaching. I started walking down the street as if I was just another pedestrian. The closer I got to him I could hear him laughing. He sort of stumbled up to me and grabbed me around my shoulder.

“Hey man, do you have a cigarette?!”

I flinched away from him, startled.

“Hey man chill out! Ha ha, no need to be scared man! Why the fuck are you wearing that thing? Have a good night! Weirdo.”

Fuck…… I turned the corner. Took out my piece, fastened the suppressor and went back for him.

I came up from behind and then through what felt like the largest frog that had ever been in my throat I said.

“Get on the fucking gr-gr-ground.”

“What?” He turned around chuckling and then saw the end my suppressor pointed at his head.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

“Don’t run or I shoot….” There was a short moment, maybe around ten seconds where he just stood there looking at me. My hand was grasping the handle of the gun squeezing it hard enough to make the long heavy suppressor visibly shake. He almost cracked a smile and started to relax.

“Go…… into the alley.” I directed him with the barrel of my gun to walk slowly into the dark. There was this open loading dock where I told him to squat. I could barely see him at this point. I could hear him start to cry. He was shaking and his breathes were short and fast. He was wheezing in and out of his smoke scarred lungs. He slowly got on his knees and without even asking he gave me his wallet.

“I’m sorry I just have this right now, it’s just about thirty dollars.I’m sorry I wish I had more.”

I took his wallet went through it, he was right. all he had was thirty dollars…. fuck….

“Strip”

“What?”

“Do you want to fucking die tonight? STRIP BITCH. Take off that fucking Alexander Wang or gucci or whatever the fuck that is.”

He started taking off his clothes. When he took off his leather jacket and white shirt I saw his thin body. He had those typical tattoos that became trendy circa 2013 and everyone and their mother was inking on their bodies hoping to look alternative or edgy or cultured and progressive or some other vapid liberal bullshit. A completely ironic and tragic social signal for emptiness and insecurity.

I shoved his shit in my backpacks. And then I left him in his boxers on the ground of the loading dock in the fetal position with mascara streaming down face.

TO BE CONTINUED

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