One in a Thousand, For All the Wrong Reasons

Rusty Roulette

Mick pulls a handgun from out his trousers. He holds it up for Bryce to see.

"This is a model '55," he says. "Only about four hundred of these were ever made."

Bryce sheepishly makes an attempt to scan the gun under the dim blue lights. He notices rust, chips, and scratches all along the side of the barrel.

"Must be pretty valuable, then," he replies carefully.

"What?" Mick starts. "No, no don't be stupid. It's a piece of shit."

He peers through Bryce's eyes.

"Look, it's my grandfather's. Used it in the war he did."

"So, like, emotionally valuable then?"

Mick's brow furrows.

"I ain't finished. Don't interrupt me when I ain't finished talking."

Bryce wisely shuts up, noting Mick's grip harden on the old pistol.

"It's military issued, still got the serial number and everything." Mick points at the serial number etched into the barrel, "Right there, you see: Oh-eight-hundred dash oh-three, that's the classification they had for this batch, oh-three.

Grandad got this issued to him the day he entered service, they said to keep it clean else he get whipped, old fashioned punishment even at the time, they'd get whipped for anything from stealing rations to jacking off," Mick chuckles. "If you ask me, they should bring it back."

"Now Grandad, he ain't exactly the right fit for an army job. Before he enlisted, he was one those good for nothing lowlifes what mugged people in an alley, good at it too. He grew up in the streets at a time where the streets were dangerous, even more than now. Back then nobody would help you, not even the cops, the bastards.

He gets caught one day and sentenced to life in prison, but the D.A. gave him a deal: Serve for life or serve your country. And that's how he ended up in the army.

Oh, he wasn't much for army discipline, all right! And it showed; by the time of his first deployment, his back looked like a damn Picasso painting.

All from not cleaning his gun!

The sergeant damn near took it away and deployed him naked," Mick laughs.

Bryce gave a chuckle too, settling into relaxation.

"He never learned his lesson. The pistol blew up in his face while he was fighting in the swamps."

Silence.

"Oh-three. That's the designated model number," Mick says, breaking the silence.

He stares Bryce dead in the eyes and asks, "You ever wonder why only four hundred of these were ever made?"

Bryce shakes his heady slowly.

"It was manufacturing error. The company that sold this to the army outsourced the manufacturing of the automatic feed system."

Mick ruffled through his pocket and pulled out a magazine, inserting it into the gun all while talking.

"The spring mechanism especially had a tendency to go off in bad conditions, causing the next bullet to get stuck halfway from mag to barrel, squeezing it and setting it off."

Mick cocks the gun and points it at Bryce.

Bryce yelped. "The fuck are you doing!"

"I put two bullets in the mag," Mick says.

"Seriously, man!" Bryce shouts.

"One's a blank, the one chambered right now, and the other is real."

Micks puts a finger on the trigger and pulls slowly. Bryce can hear the gun creaking.

"This gun was delivered to my mom and grandma along with his uniform. They kept it in a box; took me a while to find it, and you know what?"

"Mick, please!" Tears in Bryce's eyes.

"I didn't even bother cleaning it."

Mick stops pulling the trigger a hairs breadth away from shooting the gun.

"You know what we are, don't you?" Mick asks quietly, almost a whisper.

Bryce could only stare.

"Like this gun- one in a thousand, but for all the wrong reasons."

Mick pulls the trigger.

When Bryce opens his eyes, he sees a plume of acrid smelling smoke coming out from the burnt remains of his friend's hand.

A crooked smile on a hanging jaw, and eyes staring dead at Bryce.