Noddy looked into bloodshot eyes sparking with recognition. The band had moved on, Sex and Religion’s pounding drum intro ensuring that nobody noticed the drama unfolding on the dancefloor.
Noddy smiled. For no real reason. The man in the Hawaiian shirt smiled too. Then there was a gun in his hand, and Noddy’s smile froze.
Being well-versed in the multitudinous varieties and technicalities of arms and ammunition, Noddy recognized it instantly as a Big Gun. The kind that makes things explode, as opposed to the kind that just drills a neat hole through them. Chrome-plated. Red grip on the handle. And this identification wasn’t at all easy to make, as the thing was shaking up and down, back and forth, and quite obviously wasn’t at all happy to be there.
The band played on, the crowd caught up in the surge of Bex’s bass, Greg’s contrasting guitar chords. Lighters came out, held high in hands swaying to the haunting refrain of lost love.
The gun still shook inches away from Noddy’s face. Noddy still smiled, but only in the absence of another expression to replace the one frozen there.
The Hawaiian’s face was a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions. Noddy watched them come and go with a detached amusement that had little to do with his current situation. Determination fought with doubt. Was replaced by anger. Then resignation. Noddy felt his own eyes grow tired from shifting back and forth between the Hawaiian’s face and the barrel of the gun that moved in and out of focus between them.
Then the gunman made a decision. A switch flipped in his head. His finger eased away from the trigger.
And he dropped like a sack of exploding pineapples.
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Cheers.
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