The bartender looked on, plainly amused, as the girl leaked tears onto the dusty stretch of path between them. His arms were crossed, one hand tapping the side of his long-barreled handgun against his forearm, as he watched the heartbreaking spectacle he’d wrought. Only after getting his fill of sorrow did he kneel beside the prone form of his victim, feeling around the man’s neck in search of a pulse.
“What’re you doing…?” Roulette hissed. She may not have known the man well, but the thought of this murdering jackal picking over his corpse still made her sick.
Silence reigned. Then, in the midst of the tension growing between them, something unexpected happened:
The body hiccuped. Loudly.
The bartender looked up at her with a smirk, coming out of his crouch with his gun leveled at the man stirring at his feet.
“You are both lucky. He consumes so many spirits, I had thought him dead for certain.”
“I-I don’t understand…” the girl stammered, her wide eyes flicking between the gun and her fallen ally.
“Then allow me to explain,” he replied. He tilted his handgun, then, presenting it in profile without lifting it from his target. It looked much like a typical silver-plated handgun–albeit with a longer barrel than usual–but only from this angle could Roulette discern its most unusual feature: a series of small, arctic white tubes projecting from the weapon’s side. The tubes stood in a row, giving the firearm a ribbed appearance; each one arced from the uppermost portion of the weapon’s side into a lower region just above the trigger, feeding back into the weapon as if they circulated some agent necessary to the gun’s performance.
“To most observers, I am sure, my weapon looks no different than a handgun,” he continued. “However, I can assure you that the similarities are purely aesthetic; it fires no conventional bullets, and its slide is immobile. You may also have noticed its relative noiselessness compared to other handguns.”
Roulette thought back to the moment of the “killing” shot. In her panicked state, it seemed to resonate more loudly than most gunfire she’d heard in the past… Yet, upon reflection, she had to admit that it had sounded quieter than she expected–and irregular, too, as if the typical combustion of gunpowder within the weapon had been stifled or distorted somehow. At the time she’d chalked it up to the presence of a silencer, but she could now plainly see that no such instrument existed on the end of his weapon’s elongated barrel. Curious.
“The weapon is able to fire so quietly because it requires no gunpowder to function–only compressed air.” The man paused, pointing to a small, closed metal flap toward the rear of the barrel. “Do you see? This panel conceals a vent; a vent which only opens when I pull the trigger. It exists to draw in air the moment before I fire, at which point it is rapidly compressed in order to force my projectile from the barrel.”
As the realization of her partner’s survival sunk in, Roulette found her head beginning to clear. “...Compressed air?” she echoed with a frown, “If that’s true, the object you’re firin’ would have to be light–too light to kill. Or even hurt, much.”
“Astute,” he answered, nodding his smug approval. “That is where these tubes you see come in. They are responsible for chilling and circulating air around the components present in the gun whenever I, its destined Gunslinger, wield it: water, and a very special type of ethanol.”
“...Ethanol?” Roulette repeated, still bewildered by what she was hearing. Even the term itself was unfamiliar to her.
“Ah, of course–you are too young to drink where you hail from, yes?” he asked.
“...In the city, maybe.” Roulette scowled, suddenly defensive. “I’m 19, but Daddy let me drink whenever I wanted to for years now. It ain’t the same out on the range.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“My apologies. I failed to account for your father’s criminality,” he replied, pausing to savor a fresh flash of anger as it flitted across her features. “In that case, you have little excuse for your embarrassing gap in understanding. But fear not, for I intend to address it presently…”
With a flourish, the bartender reached under his apron and produced something from an unseen pocket: a small bottle of rum. He unscrewed it one-handed and dribbled a small amount on the back of his gun-toting hand before replacing the cap and stowing it away again, garnering a degree of grudging respect from Roulette for the gracefulness of his movements.
“I do not imbibe alcohol, myself, under any circumstances–it fogs the mind, you see–but as you observe, I can freely pour it on my skin without suffering any ill effects. Do you know why that is?”
“Somethin’ to do with ethanol, I’d guess,” she answered through gritted teeth.
“Very good. Specifically, the concentration of ethanol–the chemical in liquor meant to intoxicate me–is too low to do so through contact with my skin. This is particularly strong rum, but even if this were ethanol in its most potent form, I would remain unaffected; my liver would process it more quickly than my skin could absorb it.”
He smiled, then, holding his gun aloft for a brief moment. “...Enter the Doppelglock, my weapon of choice. For whatever reason, the ethanol produced inside this firearm is many times more effective than any known substance at causing intoxication through the skin. Whenever a new projectile is formed, the water surrounding it is instantly frozen, creating a thin-shelled pellet of ice around a core of liquid ethanol. When fired, the pellet shatters against my targets and splashes them with droplets of the fluid inside. A single dose is enough to induce drunkenness in seconds; two is often debilitating… And three?”
He kicked the man lying before him, prompting a groan of extreme displeasure in return.
“Three is typically fatal. Which is why I am surprised to see this one still breathing; I would have wagered that he verged on succumbing to alcohol poisoning at the best of times, given his daily habits. That round I emptied into his back should have pushed him over the edge… His tolerance must be incredible.”
Roulette had nothing to say to that. Instead she swung her SMG around into her waiting hands, loosing a deep, steadying breath as she prepared to take a life–only the second she’d ever thought of claiming.
“Oh? Have you finally had enough of my explanations?” he chuckled, giving his gun a wiggle to accentuate its current target–Roulette’s new hire, still burbling listlessly from his place on the ground. “I was wondering when my helpfulness would wear out its welcome. I have given you far more than I typically give my victims, you know–few have ever heard so much about my Doppelglock’s capabilities. And none before have lived to tell about it…”
The girl’s gun trembled in her hands, belying her inexperience. Damn it, she thought, it’s happening again–just like last time! Too soft-hearted to pull the trigger… Even when the man in front of me rightly deserves it…
The man smirked at the outward signs of her reluctance, making no moves to evade or shield himself from her theoretical attack. “They say that the power of a Gunslinger is drawn from their reserves of mental strength and focus; in other words, the weaker the wielder, the weaker the power they can bring to bear against their enemies…” He began to laugh, giving the helpless form of his collapsed adversary another kick for good measure. “From what I have seen these past few minutes, I believe I have no reason to be worried… So take your best shot, little girl. I am waiting.”
Little girl…
It was so hard for her to recall the details. Roulette’s mind swam, the memories kindled by the Gunslinger’s words buried under an ocean of trauma. All she knew was that she hated those words; she hated how helpless they made her feel. Yet, all the same, they lit a fire in her that she could neither dismiss nor explain. They supplied an unbelievable wellspring of resolve–the same resolve that had brought her so far, yet threatened to destroy her with the intensity of the thoughts that fuelled it. Unwilling or unable to confront the loss that had brought her to this moment, Roulette thought instead of her father during the good times; when he was still around to support her, to help her find strength.
Look down the sights at the back, he’d said. Keep it level, now, or you’ll miss. Imagine the can is that little neighbor boy’s pasty ass right after he stole BunBun. She’d giggled. Daddy!! she’d scolded, You can’t say things like that! He’d laughed, firming up her arms at the elbows. Focus. Keep it steady. One of these days, a real bad man might be in your sights. Now, remember what I taught you. Deep breaths. Feet planted. Get ready for the recoil… And…
Fire.
She fired.