It is a standard .45 caliber ACP pistol, loaded with three rounds. It is a relatively light gun, and easy to use one-handed, which is why it meets my preference.

“SHUT THE **** UP!” I scream at Thomas.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry” Thomas whimpers.

“Here is what is going to happen Thomas LeClaire. Your going to continue to sit there like a sniveling coward and I’m going to continue to hold this gun against the back of your brain. Now when I feel like pulling the trigger, it will activate a hammer that will strike the rear end of the bullet cartridge and light the gunpowder it contains. This will send the bullet out of the gun at about 900 feet per second. On the tip of this bullet, I have filled a tiny cross, so when it hits your skull, it will fragment and tear through every inch of your brain and most of these pieces will continue out of your face.”

“You will fall to the ground dead, at the exact same time the empty cartridge hits the ground” I continue. “Do you have any last words?”

“You don’t have to do this” he pleads. “Please, I beg on your mercy. I’m a good man.”

“You’re a good man,” I repeat. “How do I know that?”

Ten minutes ago Thomas LeClaire was sitting behind a convenient store counter thumbing through the latest issues of Hustler and Penthouse. I parked my stolen car three blocks away and left it in a relatively bad neighborhood with the keys in the ignition. I hadstole it from a valet lot on the other side of town about an hour before that. They most likely haven’t even noticed its missing yet. In my waistband was my pistol, and in my pocket was an orange ski-mask. Neither were noticeable as I walked briskly through what is still considered a bad neighborhood.

Eight minutes ago I entered the corner store that on Monday though Saturday, from 5 p.m. until midnight, is manned by a lonesome clerk. He has been an employee of this establishment for at least a year. There was a customer buying a lottery ticket when I entered and I walked over to the cooler section. I found the coldest Coke I could and walked towards the counter.

Seven minutes ago I walked past the convenient store entrance and looked at the gum stationed near the door, pretending to decide which flavor I wanted. With the clerk fumbling with something under the desk, I flipped the sign to say “Closed” and locked the door. No one saw. I put on the orange ski-mask and withdrew the pistol from its cloaked position. The clerk stood back up and found a pistol shoved into his face.

Six minutes ago the clerk was laying on the floor behind the counter. I was standing behind him as I broke into the register.

“Don’t ******* move.” I said as I ripped the drawer from the register, loose change clanging to the ground. The bills I stuff into my pockets.

About four or five minutes ago, I made Thomas LeClaire stand up.

“What’s your name boy?” I asked him.

“Tom.”

“Tom what?”

“Thomas LeClaire.”

“Well Tommy boy, today’s your lucky day,” and I shoved him into the back room of the store. I felt cliché and dumb as I followed him. I left my Coke at the register.

The back of the store was littered with filth and paper. Newspapers, work papers, scraps of paper, papers about papers. It was all there.

Three minutes ago I found rope in the store and tied Thomas LeClaire’s hands snuggly around his back. I asked him where the surveillance camera tapes were held. He told me in a cabinet behind a desk that looked like it was from the seventies. It was particle board, and one leg was held up by a faceless book. All I could make out on the front cover was a set of knuckles in the form of a fist. I grabbed the tapes and dropped them individually to the ground and crushed them with the heel of my boot. I knew this store wasn’t one of especially high security and decided that these were the only evidence. After all, why would the owner pour thousands of dollars into a security system that would never protect him? It would protect his money, but usually these sort of convenient stores also serve as a host for many black-market activities. This assumption turned out to be true, as the video recorder for the camera over the register turned out to be off.

One minute ago I kicked open the service door that leads into a small, concrete enclosed alley. It rained earlier in the day and the alley has substantial puddles accrued in the low spots of the asphalt. I ordered Thomas LeClaire the kneel on the ground, and he followed orders.

“You’re a good man,” I repeat. “How do I know that?”

Thomas remains silent. He begins to blubber uncontrollably.

“HOW DO I KNOW THAT THOMAS?”

“You don’t…you don’t.” He concedes. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

“My name is William Appier. I’m 25 years old and I live at 365 Polo Street in East York.” I tell him. “I’m doing this…to change the world.”

At this statement Thomas LeClaire really falls apart. His whole body is trembling and his sobs get louder. My lack of fear excites his own.

“HOLD STILL AND SHUT UP.” I command. “Where is your wallet?”

“My, my back pocket, left.” He stammers out between drops of tears.

I search his back pocket and find his wallet. It is plump and brown leather. Fake leather. I inspect his wallet’s contents and as I do this I withdraw the gun from the back of Thomas’ head. He sighs in relief.

His wallet is a treasure trove. To him anyway. I find about seven bucks in his wallet and put that in my pockets with the other bills. Several receipts are in the billfold. One for a pharmacy and another for an electronics store. I find a movie ticket that is at least a year old. Two credit cards are amongst the mess. They are scratched and the magnetic strips on their backs have become white with wear. There is a key which Thomas explains is an key to his old apartment. It has sentiment he explains. Tucked in the last flap of with wallet I find a picture of a girl. A woman. The back of it has a phone number and a name. Jillian.

“Who is this?” I ask.

“Nobody, just…some girl.” Thomas says clearly. For the first time I notice Thomas is the owner of an accent.

“Don’t feed me bullshit Thomas.” I say calmly. “You wouldn’t have a picture of some girl”.

“Fine you want to know? Her name is Jillian. She’s an ex of mine. What difference does it make to you?” Thomas had picked his head up when I removed the gun but now it hung on his chest again. He was trembling; the gun was at my side.

“Tell me more” I say.

“Why?” Thomas responds bluntly. He seems to have forgotten that I have the gun.

I decide to remind him. I kick him in the back of the neck and he falls straight forward. Landing with a splash in the puddle that was in front of him, but now is on him. He rolls over so he doesn’t drown in the shallow water. His entire neck is red from my boot.

“GODDAMMIT” Thomas says. I stand over him and position the gun so it stares him straight in the face.

“Fine *******. She’s Jillian. Everything to me. We broke-up two years ago. She was one of the best things to ever happen in my life.” Thomas can barely breathe.

“You still love her?” I ask.

“What do you think? Why would I keep a picture of her in my wallet?” he replies.

I kick him hard in the ribs. He rolls over and winces in terrible pain. I probably broke a rib with my steel toed boot. He is on his stomach again, but at least he is out of a puddle.

“Just kill me if you’re gonna. Don’t drag it out.”

He hears me unclick the safety of the gun and I know his life is flashing before his eyes. I know that the last flash he sees is of Jillian.

Thomas whimpers terribly as he imagines my aiming the gun at the back of his head. He imagines the sight of the pistol as it meets his head. The bullet as it crashes through his head and kills him instantly. He then imagines about how his head will look at his funeral. It will be bound by cotton and stuffed. You won’t be able to his head at all. He wonders if the casket will even remain open.

BANG!

The bullet enters the puddle with a single splash, and leaves the puddle with a hundred more. It fragmented just as I predicted and the pieces fall throughout the alley, making many pin-drop sounds further down.

The alley is quiet. Everything is quiet. Thomas LeClaire makes no sounds except his heavy breathing. He is still alive.

I cloak my gun into my pants. I kick Thomas LeClaire in his side again, to get him to roll over. I take off the ski-mask and put that away as well.

“I don’t understand…” Thomas begins to stutter. His accent is gone.

I hold his wallet in my hand and I put it on the dumpster behind me. His seven dollars is replaced.

I hold up the picture of Jillian.

“I’m keeping this.” I tell him. “In six months you will see me again. If you haven’t either reconciled with her or at least attempted to, this scenario will happen again. But with wildly different results.”

His look is of pure bewilderment. He doesn’t know what to say. He begins a couple different sentences but stops before completing the first word.

I tell him to roll over so I can cut him free. He obliges with mild speculation I’m not doing as I say. Before I cut him free, I carve a tiny heart with my knife six inches above his wrist on his inner forearm. It bleeds, but is far from threatening. He screams slightly but it is over in a matter of seconds.

“Something to remember me by. I’m watching.” I disappear.

A moment later Thomas LeClaire stands. He looks around nervously and sees he is alone. He runs into the store to phone the police. The phone is located two shelves below the register, so in case it rings, the register is never left unattended. As he picks up the phone from the bottom shelf, he notices the coin change that was dropped on the floor is missing, as is the drawer in which the money is kept. Thomas LeClaire assumes the robber took them both on his way out, until he notices the drawer is back in the register. He pops the drawer open and to his surprise, the entire day’s money is still there. He looks around for clues but all he finds is a toonie perched on the edge of the store counter. He picks it up, and underneath is a coin sized note, inscribed FOR THE COKE. He picks it up and his arm begins to ache where he was cut. He inspects to find that the skin has already scarred, and the blood that was on his arm has already dried. Thomas LeClaire puts the phone down and walks out of the front door that is already unlocked without saying a word.

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