"Goodbye Curly Head"

"Then Came the Last Days of May"

It was getting warm. Way too warm. Too hot to rot away at home. Hell, even Andy's father would hop out of his den from time to time for an outside cigarette break in the moonlight, or a supply run to the local market. School was out, so all that was left was to aimlessly wander the streets, terrorizing local gun shows and shooting competitions. The hell-raising trio has oftentimes been escorted out of such events due to complications arising from the questionable behavior of one certain individual.

"You shot the guy's burdenbeast."

The tender, warm breeze gently assaulted Andy's tired face as the three of them laid beneath a peach tree, after a daring break-in into some lonely orchard. Such a perfect spot, overlooking a vast, endless wheat field. The golden ocean moved with the wind, shimmering in the moonlight. It was a quiet, peaceful night. As peaceful as Lateran nights can be.

"Okay, no, look, I didn't shoot anyone's anything!"

Lemuel turned to Andy, her eyes closed and a proud grin on her face. The face of someone with no regrets.

"I was aiming for the bottles. Not my fault the bullet ran off to the side, happens to the best-"

"The bullet "ran off to the side" three consecutive times."

Mostima cut in to point out a crucial detail. She seemed a tiny bit pissed, now that their gun show escapade had been cut short. Her halo dimmed and Andy could tell she was lightly annoyed. Sankta intuition.

"And the thing wasn't even anywhere near the bottles..."

"My hand must've slipped!"

"And it squealed kinda loudly after the first hit..."

"The noise caught me off guard so I fired two more! Big deal!"

"Caught off guard? Not with that shit eating grin on your face."

"But I was, pinky promise!"

As a giggling fit overcame the redhead, Andy and Mostima exchanged a glance of powerlessness. They knew arguing was pointless, anyway. Besides, had they stayed at that packed, loud gun show, they wouldn't have made their way to this spot, outside the city walls. A serene, calm place. As calm as it can be, with Lem in the vicinity.

"Besides, we can just make our own shooting gallery. No stupid rules, no, burdenbeasts, no grumpy, old men."

She turned to Andy with a wide grin and sparkly eyes.

"Please?~ I know you're carrying."

Andy felt a weird sensation in his stomach, almost like a punch to the gut. He's already forgotten that he had told her about his dad's gun. His patron firearm. A small, snub-nosed .38 revolver. Two or three years ago, it mysteriously disappeared from his dad's den. Cover story for the abduction being that, "Oh, well, sorry, dad, but you drank a lot of that weird apple juice and then threw it out the window. I saw some liberi pick it up later." 

Since then, Andy's been keeping it hidden underneath the floorboards under his bed. As much as he wants to deny it, he took it from his father not only for fear of him hurting himself, but also because of an infinitely more selfish reason. It was a gun. A real, working, functioning gun. The love for firearms had been instilled into Andy at a very young age, when he's just met Lem. The hyperactive moron would often babble about wanting to own this or that model, shoot this or that teacher, blow up this or that classroom. Guns were a staple of Lateran culture. A sign of status. If you had a patron gun, you ruled, man.