[a few doors slam in the succession; the one to the utility closet, the one to the range (even trying to camouflage himself in baggy clothing, he's as skinny as the damn broom over his shoulder)]
[it doesn't take him that long, non-withstanding one explosive occasion with a customer and the following explosive shouting match (Are you fuckin' slow?! Put the rifle down for ten fuckin' seconds!)]
[the third slam eventually comes, and he's back in the shop carrying a slightly larger raincloud than before (the question lingers; how did this kid look so dry and flammable all the time?)]
[he doesn't bother putting the broom away yet, and his hands (and the bandages around his hands) are greasy with gun-refuse]
[the gangster knows what to do with them; what to tell them to get their money, what words (buttons to push, triggers to pull) to say to get them to speak, spill, bleed]
[worick is the one that lacks instructions -- he doesn't know what to do with himself when it's just loneliness with another person in the room (is that it? in all his well-readness, he can't summon up the right word; does it exist?)]
[ -- he smiles, because suddenly he remembers himself (it's the only thing he ever gets to forget)]
The "don't shoot yerself in the dick with the merchandise" policy, probably. I wouldn't suggest shopliftin', f'that's what yer here fer. You won't sneak nothin' outta the boss's inventory without him noticin'.
[the smile is off-putting; he's not the type of boy to (ever) smile back reflexively]
Yah right. I ain't got a death wish. An' I ain't a thief neither!
[they both know it's a lie; every kid on the street became a thief within their first week (it was that, or a killer, or a whore -- the options usually didn't leave much room for choice)]
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Re: action; triggerfingers
[the gigolo gestures at a closet marked with a UTILITY sign, broom-ready]
[he figures the kid's probably seen his way about a few times by now; he'd gotten word of a hopeful purchase for a firearm, had chuckled at it -- ]
Don't go hidin' in no corners, ya might get shot.
[the way he does now, full of jokes no one else laughs at]
Re: action; triggerfingers
Don't go pullin' no triggers when I'm out there an' maybe I won't.
[and those red sneakers kick all the air out of the way towards the utility closet]
Re: action; triggerfingers
[ -- he calls to a bony back]
[the paper gets lifted again; his eye has already memorized every pixel of every word, but he'll take anything to distract from that broken face]
Re: action; triggerfingers
[it doesn't take him that long, non-withstanding one explosive occasion with a customer and the following explosive shouting match (Are you fuckin' slow?! Put the rifle down for ten fuckin' seconds!)]
[the third slam eventually comes, and he's back in the shop carrying a slightly larger raincloud than before (the question lingers; how did this kid look so dry and flammable all the time?)]
[he doesn't bother putting the broom away yet, and his hands (and the bandages around his hands) are greasy with gun-refuse]
[over black-and-white, red all over calls]
What else?
Re: action; triggerfingers
[the gangster knows what to do with them; what to tell them to get their money, what words (buttons to push, triggers to pull) to say to get them to speak, spill, bleed]
[worick is the one that lacks instructions -- he doesn't know what to do with himself when it's just loneliness with another person in the room (is that it? in all his well-readness, he can't summon up the right word; does it exist?)]
[what else, Badou asks, like it's that easy]
[in the world of a child, it probably is]
...Ya ever shot a gun before?
Re: action; triggerfingers
[and while Badou is still is a child, it's always obvious that he's not a child of the above world, that's for sure]
Why? S'that the shoplifters policy?
Re: action; triggerfingers
The "don't shoot yerself in the dick with the merchandise" policy, probably. I wouldn't suggest shopliftin', f'that's what yer here fer. You won't sneak nothin' outta the boss's inventory without him noticin'.
Re: action; triggerfingers
Yah right. I ain't got a death wish. An' I ain't a thief neither!
[they both know it's a lie; every kid on the street became a thief within their first week (it was that, or a killer, or a whore -- the options usually didn't leave much room for choice)]
What'dya care if I can shoot? Ya nervous?