"How much?" I whispered.
The gun cradled in my hand was a work of genius; at least to me. One shot and your enemy was dead. One shot was all it took for them to get what they deserve.
Maybe two or three for some extra satisfaction, but to me that's just a waste of resources.
"How much do you have?" The miserable old shopkeeper asked.
"About twenty," I responded, rummaging through my pockets with one hand and clutching the gun with the other. "Anywhere close to what you wanted?"
"Sorry," the man took the gun out of my hand quite forcefully, placing it back underneath the counter. "Can't go any lower than sixty-five."
I shrugged and chuckled lightly. "Shouldn't have wasted your time. My apologies, sir." As I turned away, I quietly pulled the switchblade out of my pocket. The blade revealed itself with the satisfying sound of metal against metal, just one of many that reminded me of fresh crimson spilled on the street. Turning back to the man, I quickly demanded what he should have given me in the first place.
"GIVE ME THAT GUN, MISTER!" I waved the blade in his wrinkly and genuinely surprised face. "HAND IT OVER! COME ON!"
He shakily pulled the work of art out from under the counter.
"That's right," I sighed. "Come on."
I found myself in a small firearm shop, a man desperately offering me a loaded gun.
"Take it," he insisted. "Just don't hurt me."
With a small yet questioning grunt, I realized I was holding a large switchblade to the man's face.
"Holy--!" I yelled, the sudden terror forcing my hand to let go, dropping the knife to the counter. Unfortunately, it fell at just the wrong angle, piercing and tearing the skin on my forearm. I yelped, grabbing onto the laceration, attempting to stop the bleeding.
"I'm sorry!" I yelled, running out of the shop and onto the sidewalk. I quickly sat down, ignoring the dull pain of concrete hitting bone, working on trying to stop the blood flowing out of my arm.
A woman started to walk up to me, her eyes showing obvious malevolence and a need for the sick satisfaction that many searched for. And, sadly, received.
"Can I help you?" Fake worry lined her nasal tone. She reached out for my arm; she wanted to rip the cut open further.
"NO!" I screamed. I cradled my forearm protectively and jumped away. "GET AWAY! GET AWAY!"