Jeff bought a gun and posed with it in his bathroom mirror. It felt good in his hand, like a hand gun is designed to, and it felt better than other guns he had held before. The one he rented at the local range was heavy and had a significant kick when he fired it. His sister’s gun was so small and puny, typically feminine, that he would forget he was holding a real weapon. His new gun reminded him of something a police officer might have and he straightened his back to look worthy of it. He’d ignored the pleas of his best friend who told him he was more likely to shoot himself or a loved one if he got the gun. In times like this, Jeff felt he had a duty to be armed and well trained. It was only a matter of time before he found himself in the middle of a shooting and he would be brave and true enough to stop it; he believed in himself.
Jeff had a license to carry his weapon on his hip and he would from the day that bought it. He didn’t flash it around at people, it was usually hidden by his shirt, but he made sure that it was always there. In the mornings before leaving his apartment, Jeff went through his mental checklist; wallet, keys, gun, phone.
And then the day came that he went to a gas station after work. He usually wore his shirt tucked into his khakis and he wasn’t able to have his gun inside the building where he worked, so that day, after clocking out, he went to his car and strapped the gun at his waist. As he situated it, his coworkers waved goodbye as they walked to their cars and he smiled at them. They were all nice people at the insurance company where he worked, mostly ladies, and he felt like their protector. He was average height, and he worked out, and his dark skin made him intimidating to most anyone who gave the ladies problems. The gun was icing on the cake.
When he pulled into the gas station and parked next to the pump, he walked coolly inside to pick up some snacks. People looked at him puzzled, mostly they looked at the gun on his hip.
He picked out his chips and was headed to the counter when he heard the old man scream, “Stop right there, don’t even think about it!” Jeff turned and saw the man who was obviously not a police officer pointing his gun. His skin was pink, he was obviously flush and his white skin broadcasted his alarm.
“What are you doing? I’m just buying chips.”
“Yea, I bet. Put the gun on the ground and kick it over.”
Jeff laughed, “I’m not gonna let you steal my gun.”
“And I’m not gonna let you rob this store.”
Everyone else in the store stared quietly in disbelief. The clerk behind the counter managed to hide away and call the police.
“Put that away man, I’m not robbing anything. I know I’m faster than you. You got ‘til the count of three.”
Both men counted, and on three, Jeff realized that he’d been overconfident. As he reached for his weapon, the old man shot him three times. It’s pertinent to note that the old man would serve no jail time for the murder.
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