"C'mere and kill a president!"
The boy's head turned sharply at the voice. The proprietor almost laughed at the his terrified expression. He'd sized him up as a potential customer the moment he had walked past. Something about the eyes.
"Come on, kid, give it a shot."
"I don't think so. But thanks."
That was what most of them said, at first. Sorry, but I'm not interested. You've got the wrong guy. I'm a loyal citizen, would never dream of doing such a thing. The proprietor gave this boy the same answer he gave them all.
"If you're not interested,, why are you here? You couldn't even find this place if you weren't that type of person."
He gestured to the abandoned rides behind him. The colors, once painted brightly, peeled off the carousels and store signs. The ground was littered with broken glass, cigarette stubs, and tickets, all of them old enough to be museum artifacts. Only the shooting gallery still had its lights turned on.
The boy looked around and shrugged. There was something about that waif-like expression that reminded the proprietor of a street kid from a Dickens novel. The boy spoke very softly, while he examined the shelf of prizes, thinking the proprietor wouldn't notice.
"I don't know how I got here. I'm mad, you know. This place probably isn't real. I'll bet you don't even exist."
"You're right, kid. I don't. This place is fiction, and so are you. But you know what isn't fiction? These."
He pointed behind him to the rack of guns. The kid didn't even see him do so, he realized. He was still looking at the prizes.
The proprietor smiled and picked something off the wall. He held it before the boy, smiling invitingly.
"I know what you want, kid. Am I right?"
The boy looked, transfixed. It was a tiny snowglobe, in the middle of which sat a woman holding a child. Her motherly face had been finely molded, and the boy couldn't tare his eyes away.
"Mother and child. You want that family, kid? You want your mother? All you've gotta do is take a shot ."
For a moment, the boy did nothing. Then his face contorted and he hurled the snowglobe to the ground. There was a tiny crashing sound, and fake snow was scattered by his feet.
"You dirty liar!"
You break it, you pay for it", the proprietor said, casually picking his teeth. The boy handed him a few coins- British money, he noticed. He never would have been able to tell from the way the boy spoke.
"These are more than the prize was worth. You can pay for a gun with this, too."
"No thanks. I'll take that."
The boy pointed to a small banjo on a low shelf. The proprietor shrugged and handed it to him.
"You like music?"
"I always used to play my violin, before the doctors took it away. They were afraid I'd hang myself with the strings."
"What's your name, kid?"
"Toby."
The proprietor grinned at him, revealing a gold tooth.
"What sort of music do you like to play, Toby?"
"I sing songs I've written. About bad men. Well, I've only written one so far. He was a barber."
The boy backed away slowly, gripping the instrument. He looked straight into the proprietors eyes as he spoke.
"I'm not a bad person, like him. I know that you don't have to kill innocent people, just because the world's been mean to you. I'll bet most of your customers don't know that!"
"Sure they do, kid. They just choose to forget it."
The proprietor turned away from Toby as he saw another man approaching over the horizon. He called out to him, displaying the prizes behind him. He could hear Toby walking away, but somehow he didn't feel too concerned. He'd come back.
They always came back.