"This here is the meat and potatoes of home defense." Mark said, brandishing the simple pump action 12 gauge from the glass case. He tugged at his tight fitting, gray t-shirt, making sure it fully covered his large pot belly, before tossing the shotgun up into the air, catching it by the pump action, chambering it with a jerk of his arm, like some kind of action hero. He grinned proudly through his brown bushy beard at the customer.
He had been practicing that far more then he'd care to admit, but he did work at a gun store. It helped to give the uninitiated a little flair from the movies to capture their attention. Most idiots didnt know shit about guns anyway. "Simple, reliable, powerful. Doesnt matter how big a man he thinks he is... he takes twelve gauge loaded with buckshot to the chest... knock um flat on their ass."
The unusually nervous man nodded, eying the pump action shot gun lustfully. "Thats good, thats good..." The man said, looking around. Mark was getting sick of this guy already, he had another weirdo on his hands, but he was on the clock so he just smiled, like usual, when the customers got on his nerves. Through his warm smile, he watched the customer carefully. He was wearing a business suit, but it was stained with sweat. The man's tie was loose, his shirt color unbuttoned. He looked as if he had slept in it on the streets somewhere. He had a distant, desperation in his eyes that made Mark nervous. He tried to follow the man's glances.
The gun shop which he worked was nearly empty. Aside from the guns, and patriotic war banners, there wasnt much look at. The only other body in the store, belonged to an older woman, who was staring at the snub nose revolvers a few feet away, probably looking for something to stuff into her purse. As she should, It was getting rougher and rougher out there, Mark thought. Every day you hear about some poor sod with his brains blown out in some alley, or a women with her throat slit, face down in a gutter. It was open season on decent Americans.
He noticed his strange customer was eye balling the framed military patch he had hung on the wall. Mark turned and glanced at the snarling wolf face looking back at him through the glass and smiled proudly. "Yea that was my unit, The Ghost Wolves. The last line of defense... for what good it did us." Mark mumbled towards the end of his sentence.
While he felt a swelling of pride in his recollection of the time he served, of the men and women he fought and bled besides, he couldnt forget how that conflict ended. The Russians had managed to set a nuclear power plant into melt down, making his units military victories null and void. A year later San Francisco would be nuked, and America surrendered rather then risk a full scale nuclear slugging match. It was hard to think it wasnt all for nothing.
He glanced back at the customer, only to see him nod apathetically, showing no interest whatsoever. Typical. Nobody cares about about "almost heroes" after all, America lost and that was the end of it. "Will it shoot fast enough? I might need... to defend myself from multiple attackers..." The anxious customer said, making sure to avert his gaze. Mark felt his stomach twist into a knot. He wasnt sure he bought his self defense claim, and the more he looked at him, the more he questioned whether or not a man like this should even own a gun.
Then again, he wasn't this man's guidance consular. He worked at a gun store. His boss had never picky who he sold to anyway, it wasnt any of their business what the customers did on own time. "You saw the end of it off, with a hack saw, increase the spread, able to take out two or more with one shot..." Mark said hesitantly. "Ill take it." The disgruntled businessman eagerly replied.
Mark sighed and cracked his back by stretching his broad shoulders. Another day peddling freedom, one firearm at a time. He cleaned out the cash register and scribbled down his earnings, before locking the cash away in the safe. He glanced at his watch. The owner, Ron, was due back hours ago. Mark wasnt too worried, the man was always packing heat after all. Still, he was supposed to relieve him when he got back. "I should be used to this by now." Mark thought.
The owner was a hard man to work for, and Mark was to passive to challenge him. Mark hated that about himself. He fought in the Soviet/American war for Christ's sake, but whenever someone asked something of him, he usually just bit his tongue and let them roll right over him. "Weak, fat ass piece of shit..." He mumbled to himself. The phone rang, startling Mark out of his self loathing. He picked up the phone and held it to his ear. "Ron's Gun's, we're just closing up so..." "Hey Mark, how you been, big guy?" A familiar voice, one he hadnt heard in awhile was on the other end of the phone. "Corey... its been going, you know how it is." Mark said.
Embarrassment surged through his brain like a bucket of ice cold water, as memories of him following her around after the war, like a love struck puppy entered his mind. She was always kind of aloof, and mousey, but she was easy on the eyes, and had a body that wouldnt quit. Least it would quit later then his big ass did. Corey chalked it up to her roller blading, but regardless, they were quite a team. The big brown bear, and the mouse. She had a knack for moving quickly and quietly, through the tropical terrain of Hawaii, and he had a reputation for wielding an M60 machine gun like it weighed nothing and pouring oceans of hot lead into the tropical foliage, turning the Russians hiding within into mulch.
The feeling he felt, when he just let go, let all the anger and the hurt channel into the rapid kick of his weapon, it was a high like no other. He was more then just some fat gun store clerk, he was a beast that no one wanted to fuck with. Or fuck at all, turned out. Back in their civilian lives, Corey made it pretty clear she had mentally shuffled him into the friend zone. He wasnt proud of it, but when he realized Corey would never see him as anything more then just a big goofy friend to drink beer and eat pizza with, he grew less and less interested in her over the passing months. Still he was happy the girl didnt catch the hint, and made the effort to stay in touch despite his moping.
"Oh, thats good thats good..." Corey said, her voice trailing off. Mark let out an annoyed grunt. She reminded him of the customer she had earlier, dancing around some subject and not speaking her mind. "Yea well is there something you wanted to talk about? Or did you just need to hear my sexy voice to help you fall asleep?" Mark grinned, even though a small pang of sadness blossomed in his chest. Corey made snoring noises over the phone, and Mark couldnt help but laugh despite himself.
"There's the Mark I remember." Corey said quietly. Mark wasnt sure what to make about that. "What, havent been laughing enough lately?" Corey didnt say anything. "Look I'm fine, Its late and my boss had me work over time again, so thats how its going." Mark said. "Ah... well its a dangerous neighborhood where you work..." Corey said cautiously. Mark furrowed his brow. "Yep, always has been..." He replied. "But a lot more lately... with all the Russians moving in, you told me that right?" Corey said. Mark hesitated for a bit before responding, an inkling of fear creeping into his stomach. "Did I? Yea, its been dangerous all over lately, lots of... bad people out there." Mark tapped his foot anxiously.
Corey was acting weird, and he didnt like it. He was tempted to make up and excuse to hang up the phone before she suddenly blurted something out. "Hey remember Jacket?" She said. Mark blinked, hesitating before answering. "I remember when we just called him Blondie, before he became the man, the myth, the legend." Mark chuckled nervously, trying to sound as casual as possible.
Jacket was a... controversial subject, one that oddly enough, Corey and Mark had never spoken of before. He preferred to keep his personal opinion of the man and his... activities, to himself. "Yea... we didnt talk to him much did we? He was always hanging out with Beard and those two psychos..." Corey said distantly. Mark narrowed his eyes, her voice had grown withdrawn again. "Oh yea, that gang banger Barnes and... that fat ass whats-his-name." Mark said casually. "Yea..." Corey hesitated again, letting the conversation stall.
Mark was starting to get worried. He didnt know if she was in trouble, or avoiding telling him some fucked up secret, but she was definitely acting strange. "You ever think about it...?" Corey said cautiously. Mark mulled over her words before finally asking. "Think about what?" Corey didnt respond for a long while. "Nothing never mind... I gotta go Mark, see ya around." Corey said quickly. "Hey Corey, wait." Mark said. Corey didnt say anything, but he didnt hear her disconnect the line either. "Let's get some beer and pizza soon, yea?" "Yea sure..." Corey said reluctantly. Mark narrowed his brow as he heard the click of Corey disconnecting the call. "What the hell was she on about...?" Mark mused out loud.
The jingle of the bell attached to front door of the shop chimed pleasantly through the night air. Mark looked up, expecting to see Ron walking through the door. What he did see sent a chill running through his spin. A large, powerful looking man in a dark suit stepped in through the door. He straightened his blazer by the open lapels, with his golden ring clad fingers. He looked around the store with an undeniable arrogance about him. Not once did his eyes acknowledge Mark, as he stood there watching the man in silence.
The big man took another heavy step towards the front counter, allowing two men in white suits to enter the building, flanking him on both sides. Together, all three of the men approached Mark. A wall of flesh, muscle and gaudy gold jewelry stood before him. Finally, the strongman looked down upon Mark. Mark felt a tremor in his hands as he slowly put the phone back against its receiver. He tried as best as he could, to speak without his voice quivering.
"M-may I help you?" The large man in the dark suit only smiled back in response. There was nothing friendly in the way he smiled. "You must be Mark." The strongman said, his voice thick with a Russian accent. Mark's eyes wavered down to the gold hammer and sickle tie pin the strongman wore. He had already come to the conclusion it was the Russian mob paying him a visit, though he still could not fathom why. The trademark white suits the mobsters wore, was the equivalent of gang colors, the trademark of a mob family taking over organized crime in Florida.
The two henchmen watched Mark eagerly, as if waiting for him to make a move, say something inappropriate, to give them any excuse to reach over the counter and end his life. The excited cruelty in their eyes was nearly as unnerving as the confident, demeaning tone in the strongman's voice.
The mob boss glanced at the man to his right, who stepped foreword and slapped Mark across his mouth and nose. Stars shot into Mark's brain as he reeled back, only to be quickly jerked foreword again by the Russian who slapped him. The Russian strongman stared right through Mark with dead, fish like eyes. "I give you small mercy this time. In future, when I speak, you answer. This is first time you offend me, so my man here hit you."
Mark gritted his teeth as he felt blood trickle from his nostril. He had been so stunned, like a deer in the headlights, he forgot to answer the mob enforcer. "Next time you dont speak when spoken too, he doesnt hit you, I hit you. When I hit you, I don't stop until you move no more. Do we have understanding?" Mark couldnt help himself but whimper, and he quickly nodded. "Yes, Im sorry!"
The mob enforcer just nodded back at him again, far more amused then before, now that Mark was blubbering and bleeding for him. "You are Mark, this I know. Your boss man, he say Mark... he look like great big bear, but he is like pussy... no bear." The Russian mobsters words, weighed with the thick accent bore into his chest, ripping through his heart as if they were wrapped in barbed wire. He stared back at the strongman , a dark anger growing stomach, and it took all of Mark's willpower to keep it from bleeding through into his eyes.
The Russian strongman simply chuckled dismissively. "Where's Ron...?" Mark asked, after the henchmen finally released him. The cold, cruel look in the strongman 's eyes told Mark all he needed to know before the Russian even spoke a word. "You wont be seeing him anymore. He no longer runs this place, we do, you work for us now."
Mark's stomach turned itself inside out. Ron was probably in the trunk of his car right now, and the Soviet shit heads who put him there were standing right in front of him. Mark nodded weakly in response, still unable to process fully what was happening. The Russian strongman continued. "Good, let us talk tomorrow night. Tomorrow, you will be robbed, your guns taken." Mark just stared in response. The Russian strongman hardened his gaze. "You will not be here. We come, we take what Ron has owed, you write off stolen goods for insurance. Simple yes?"
Mark nodded weakly, keeping his gaze down at the counter before him. The strongman nodded, before leaning foreword. He placed his ringed knuckles onto the glass, that creaked under his weight. Mark winced, as he felt the Russians warm breath against his face. "I do not need tell you what happens if you call police, dah?" Mark felt his heart skip a beat, as he shook his head no. The Russian kept his dead eyed gaze locked onto Mark. Mark cringed under his stare, but was powerless to do anything but look back. After what seemed like minutes, the mob enforcer nodded slowly. "Good."
Mark looked down at his hands on the counter, he watched them tremble and shake. Pathetic. Weak. If he so much as looked at the mobsters wrong, they would have beaten him to an inch of his life, even still, his mind burned with humiliation. Wounded pride bled into his stomach. He walked from around the counter, stumbling as if he were drunk. He placed a hand on the wall to steady himself. He was so powerless, so dominated by the strongman, he couldnt even stand on his feet.
His hand touched the wooden frame hung on the wall. He looked up at the face of the snarling wolf, at his military patch. A hot range erupted inside of him. He smashed his fist against the glass, shattering it, cutting into the flesh of his hand. The small plaque fell onto the ground, and no sooner then it had, Mark stomped his boot down against it, over and over again until the wooden frame and glass was scattered across the tile floor. He panted, staring down at the military patch, now free of its prison of glass and wood.
His breathing eventually slowed, his heart beat began to normalize. The snarling gaze of the Ghost Wolf patch was somehow calming to Mark. He slowly reached down, and scooped up the patch, brushing off the fragments of glass. He caressed it gently against his thumb, before turning away from the wall. He walked slowly through the door to the storeroom at the back of the store. A work bench with a reloading press, and stacks of ammunition took up much of the back room. Packages of gun parts, and special ordered pieces were organized along the back of the storeroom.
Mark turned to the space against the wall where he kept his own personal items. A large, metal gun case rested unassumingly amongst the packages and weapon parts. A simple black back pack rested atop it. Mark caressed the patch with his thumb once more, before stuffing it in his back pocket. He reached out slowly to the back pack, his hand trembling. Mark feared the contents within the pack, it was the part of him he locked away after the war. It was the part of him that wanted to come out as the Russian looked down at him.
He unzipped the bag and stared inside. He knew, once he let that part of him out, he would be unable to put it back. He pulled the object from inside the back pack slowly. The dark, empty eye sockets of the grizzly bear mask stared back at him, permanently frozen with its maw open, its fangs bared. Eternally roaring, eternally enraged. The Russian strongman had told him he planned to rob his store, that he wouldn't be there. As Mark slid the Mask over his face, he felt the familiar rage begin to take him. The Russian would be right of course, Mark would not be at the store tomorrow night. Something else will have taken his place.