Gregson felt the winter chill in the summer heat. Murder, is the most dangerous game. People are friendly, until they’re cornered. Put a person under pressure, and their nature will expand like a storm, striking at random.

Riding to the gun range with Nancy Drew, made Gregson feel like a comic book superhero. All of that tightness, next to his curves, went to his head, like a bolt of lightning.

“What kind of music do you like?” Nancy asked.

“I’m a connoisseur of the centuries. Classical,” Gregson said.

She clicked on the radio.

More breaking news in Maple Valley…

“A teacher has been shot! This makes two teachers in the last week—a pattern. Police say they are looking for a young man who may harbor a grudge, probably insane, and lives with his mother.”

“What was the caliber?” Gregson asked the radio.

“Police speculate, the lone gunman is using a Bushman.”

“Maybe, we’ll see our perp at the gun range,” Nancy suggested.

“Maybe.”

When they arrived at the non-descript building, it sounded like the 4th of July. There were posters and pamphlets tacked to the walls and pasted to the windows that read:

Don’t tread on me. You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold dead fingers. Guns don’t kill people, I kill people.

Gregson opened the door for Nancy.

“You’re such as sexist,” she said.

Gregson smiled.

The man behind the counter was only 5 feet tall. He was at least 80 years old, with white hair, a collared shirt, and purplish-blue tattoos that looked like veins, but were shaped like skulls.

“So, you’ve come to protect yourself against a home invasion?” He asked. “Maybe, the Mexican gangs?”

Gregson didn’t nod his head.

“Or the blacks?”

“Gregson didn’t confirm.”

“Skin-heads?” Gregson was self-conscious—his hair was falling out.

“In-laws?” Gregson smiled.

“The government?” Gregson smiled wider.

“What do you have that’s worth shooting?” Gregson asked.

“I’ve got everything from a .22 Hummingbird to a .44 Magnum. Who do you fancy yourself to be, Dirty Hairy or Dirty Sally?”

“I’m not a pimp, if that’s what you’re getting at?” Gregson asked.

“Oh.” The man looked Nancy up and down. “You can never be sure these days.”

“We’ll try a Glock,” Gregson said.

“They’ll shoot every time. They’ll shoot underwater. It’s a great choice.”

Gregson carried the gun to the targets, and loaded. The Taiwanese was at the far end. Then the end of her gun barrel lit-up and her mouth expanded. The recoil made her back bend like a rubber band, and the noise was like a violent orgasm.

“I guess restaurant workers have to let-off steam too, and I don’t mean, for fried rice,” Gregson said.

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