The return address on the package is some unpronounceable town in Germany. It takes a couple tries to decipher it. I try to pronounce it phonetically, but it feels thick with all the husky throat sounds. I give up. Whoever sent the box got my first name right at least: Jason Nachtshade. I remember what’s in the package and rip the cardboard open.
The inside is a layer of Styrofoam peanuts, concealing something secret and dangerous. I plunge my hand deep and feel my prize.
After Brian disappeared, it became very easy to borrow my parents’ credit card. Obviously, their attention was elsewhere.
I pull the gun out of the Styrofoam, letting peanuts fall off onto the table and floor. The barrel is chrome and slick. The weight feels good, heavy, and powerful. I turn it over in my inexperienced hands. The gun becomes welcome, as if it belongs there. A pamphlet of instructions emerges with the gun, but they’re also in German. Useless. I point the gun at objects and put imaginary holes in them: the flower vase, the refrigerator, a piece of boring art. I find the release and let the magazine out. It pops out into my other hand. So smooth. I immediately snap it back in. I pull the slide toward me and let go, loading the invisible bullet. I smile. This could be the best purchase of my life. I set the gun down and dig deeper in the box to find the ammunition: a box of blanks. Prop bullets. I call Steve and it’s almost hard to talk because I’m so excited to try the thing out.
***
“C’mon man, what are you hiding?”
On the phone, I had decided not to tell Steve about the gun, just that I had a surprise to show him. I feel the gun needs that kind of dramatic introduction.
We’re down by the creek since the drainage pipe will provide enough noise that we don’t alarm any neighbors. The steady stream is loud enough that Steve has to yell when he repeats the question.
“So what did you want to show me?”
The gun is tucked in the back of my pants and covered with my sweatshirt. I reach around my back—slow and deliberate. When I touch the textured handle, the excitement is electric and runs through my arm.
I bring the gun out and point it at Steve.
“Oh shit!” He drops to his knees, covering his head with his hands.
For a second, it’s funny to see him cower, but then I feel self-conscious. I feel like the monster in Frankenstein, unaware of his terrible power. I lower the barrel. “Don’t worry, it’s a fake.”
“What?” Steve stands up. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a prop gun,” I say, pulling the box of blanks out of my pocket. “I bought it for the movie. There are gun scenes and I wanted them to look real.”
His fear turns into deep interest as he crowds around me, looking behind for people watching us. I let him hold the gun, feel the weight. He handles the magazine and cocks the hammer back with the same reverence. Every moment is littered with “holy shit” or a “goddamn,” and soon we’re fighting to hold the gun.
“Here, give it to me.” I shake the box of blanks in front of him.
Steve relinquishes the gun and I fumble the box open. Suddenly, I’m very nervous with the toy, letting thoughts enter my mind like what if it’s not fake?
“How did that dude from The Crow die?” Steve asks, as if reading my thoughts. “Was it a blank gun?” He stops to consider the question. “Yeah, Brandon Lee. He was killed on-set. A fake gun was loaded with real bullets. Something like that.”
“I don’t think you can do that,” I say, looking down at the magazine in one hand and a blank in the other. “Fake guns can’t shoot real bullets.” I hope.
“Remember that guy who died on The Twilight Zone Movie?” Steve continues. “That was fucked up.”
“Yeah, but that was a helicopter. Chopped the guy’s head clean off.” I emphasize this point by striking an invisible line through my neck. “Killed two kids too. People say John Landis has never been the same.”
I snap one of the blanks into the magazine. It seems too easy, which makes me uneasy. I snap two more in.
“John who?” Steve asks.
“John Landis. That guy who did American Werewolf in London. He was the guy directing when the helicopter went down.”
“Who says that he hasn’t been the same?”
“You know. People.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I slide the loaded magazine into the handle. Steve goes on about the nature of people dying on film.
“Shut up,” I say. “I’m loaded.”
He stops talking and fear returns to his face. Again, I’m uncomfortable with the gun in my hands.
“Is it going to be loud?” Steve asks.
“I don’t know.” My heart races. I pull the slide back and see the blank pop into place. “You ready?”
I aim the gun off in the other direction, just in case the bullets are real. Gun phrases from movies rush through my mind, but “don’t pull the trigger, squeeze” is the one that sticks. I can’t remember what movie it’s from.
I squeeze the trigger. Thunder.
The shell flies out and lands, smoking, at my feet. I’m short of breath and sweaty, but I also feel immensely light. Behind me, Steve stands, mouth agape, still covering his ears.
“Holy shit,” Steve says. “That was awesome.”
“That’s right,” I say, giddy with power. “Don’t fuck with me.” I squeeze off the other two blanks. Before we retreat back to our houses, I throw the blank cases into the drainage pipe.