Johnny had seen guns up close before.
In fact, Johnny had touched a gun before.
Johnny remembered his dad's gun, the crappy old revolver wrapped in a duster, in it's little box, in his mom's underwear, the firearm that assured their sub-suburbia aura of safety.
Johnny remembered the feel of the rough metal against his tender palms and the worn rubber grip that stuck to his clammy palms, feeling as secure as napalm.
Johnny remembered the stubborn, grating click of the trigger. The spark as the bullet rushed forth from the barrel as he'd sneak off and blast the shit out of an old tyre.
These cops had guns. They're still scared though. Scared of him. The guns wouldn't fucking help them. His ammo was better than bullets, never ran out.
The wheel of his lighter clicked, just like the gun. Only it's smooth, it works in one fluid motion. And the Zippo isn't coarse in his hand; the metal's warm and feels strangely at home.
The light, the spark from his lighter is brighter than the gun and it's silent, save for the customary 'Fwoosh Click'.
And as Johnny feels the fire rising in his belly, the indescribable rush that's so much better than firing a gun, the power that he knows that he controls, the makes his palms itch and makes these cops cower away from him, he's sure of one thing.
Guns are overrated.