There's a First Time for Everything (A Challenge)

I remember the first time I fired a gun.

I happened to be sitting in a cliche-ly dark corner of the Punch-Drunk Line, down on Oak Street.  There was the usual hub-bub that night.

Up to a point.

I was asking the barkeep for another pot of hot water when the door blew open, and a shadowy figure filled the doorjamb.  Everyone turned predictably.

The stranger clunked to the side-back-corner corner of the bar, his black-pinstripe fedora over his eyes, the collar of his trenchcoat around his ears.

"Can I get ya something?" the barkeep asked apprehensively.

"Yeah," the stranger replied gruffly.  "Y'got some joe?"

The barkeep slid some a mug across the counter, the stranger catching it perfectly.

I watched, interested.

I guess I watched a little too long.

"Whadeah lookin' at, huh?" the stranger snapped, his unseen eyes glaring in my direction.

"Nothin'," I said simply.

"Nothin', huh?  Y'callin' me a nothin' now?"

"What's it to ya if I am?"

The stranger slammed his mug on the counter for enraged emphasis.  "Y'gonna be sorry!"

I glanced at the table next to me.  A pistol lay conveniently in my reach.  I picked it up and fired it through the ceiling.

The stranger, the barkeep, everyone present jumped to see me, the quite writer, with a gun in my hand.

"Jimmy..." the barkeep whispered in awe.  He shook his head in disbelief.  "I never thought I'd see the day."

"Guess there's a first time for everything, Doc."

The End

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