It's Just A Gun

[Ronnyboy]

This is another short story by me, just to keep the mind flowing. I'm thinking of writing a story around the Don if you guys like it.

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It's just a gun, that's what they always said. "It's just a gun man, don't gotta tell me about it all the time". I never understood how you can call this killing machine, this crafted piece of beauty built for bloodshed, just a gun. A gun is a gun to the average person, little more then a tool that when you pull goes "Bang", and kills the other guy. But to me, it was more then that.

 

All my life I grew up around weapons, whether it was my Dad building guns for my Uncle Don Scracolligi, or just the sounds of the night, it was my life. My father wanted me to learn the family trade, to be a real armaiolo, to work for Uncle Scracolligi. I never went to a real school as a boy, my teacher was my pop, my table was a work bench, my pencils were bullets, and my paper was a gun. I spent countless hours, working until the unbearable heat from the basement drove me upstairs for supper, then to bed. I would work day in and day out, learning the ways of the armaiolo. My mom, she always tried to stick up for me, to try and give me a break. But my dad, he was a strong man and wouldn't take otherwise then his own word. His discipline was only fair, but to me it seemed like hell If I ever made a mistake, I was punished. My punishments were harsh, usually they involved me working through the night. I would clean out guns, sort ammo, and made sure the whole operation was clean. Sweat would drip from burning face as I would come upstairs, having a harsh sun light hit me. Only the pain of my eyes would distract me but a moment before my father called me downstairs for another hard days work. After I learned on how to clean, maintain, and use a gun, I learned the ways of the product.

 

As soon as I could drive, my Father told me to drive Uncle Scracolligi's truck to the docks to pick up some hardware. I noticed some large crates in the back, but I figured they must be from the last trip. With the expansion of Uncle Scracolligi's business, the trips were almost making trips every hour. I knew with the expansion of business, meant the expansion of family members, which meant more guns. That was one of the things father taught me, how the family works. The bigger your treasure pile gets, the more guards your going to need, and with more guards means more weapons. But, the other people coming for your treasure will have newer weapons, so you need to get new ones instead. If only everything my pop said was that simple, if only the family was that simple, but it wasn't. By the time we reached the docks, my dad was acting in a peculiar way. He seemed edgy, looking over his shoulder, as if he was waiting for someone, or looking out for someone. My dad taught me how to make it seem inconspicuous, how to hide the weapons amongst other boxes, and how we had to avoid Foremen looking to inspect our cargo. I had always figured it was just, "Grab the boxes, put them on the truck, then take them home". But my god, was the planning extremely accurate, everything had to be perfect. As we started to leave, a slight shower started to fall. My father remarked "Sh*t, at this rate it's going to be raining pitchforks and ni**er babies when we get back home"

 

Unfortunately, it was the last joke he ever made. When we arrived at the warehouse, just two blocks away from home, someone else was waiting. Uncle Scracolligi was waiting, it seemed that those boxes we had left and left behind were illegal bank notes that my father was trying to get rid of. He wanted to business to be legitimate, not corrupt. Unfortunately, Uncle Scracolligi didn't think the same way. At that moment my father made his last stand "Damn it Vinny, we started this thing together, I the armaiolo, you the Don. We agreed that we would keep this legitimate. We agreed we would keep things legal, so our children could take over a family that would never have to worry. Damn it man, have you no shame? No thought? No care for our kids lives?" At that moment, my father looked me in the eyes. He had a look I'll never forget, a look of disappointment, a look of fear, a look of fear. I had never seen my father in fear, but I was in so much fear I guess I never noticed it until much later in life.

 

Ironically, the same thing my father had always worked, on the same thing he built, the same thing he spent hours, days, weeks, months, and years on, killed him. Right there, in a warehouse on 42nd street. After my own Father was killed, my uncle called me out. He threw his arm around me like we had just gotten done with a baseball game, as if killing my own father, his own brother, didn't matter. He asked me "My boy, do you know how to work a gun?", with a meek answer I replied, "Yes, my dad taught me the ways of the armaiolo". My uncle raised his head, let out a light chuckle, then bent down to my level. I looked into my fathers killers face. What I saw, was hell. His face, it was demonic, he was smiling, the sick bastard was smiling. His eyes, big and blue, should have turned red. As I looked into his face, he asked me "Do you know how the family works? Because if your dad taught you that, he's one bad teacher. You see that over there? That pool of blood, brain, guts and clothes that was once your father? He didn't follow the rules, but if you follow me, and you work for me, I promise that won't be your fate."

 

I couldn't resist the offer, so I took it with pride. Now adays I do everything my father did. However I'm alone in this house, my mom gone, my only girlfriend dating some thug from Downtown, all I have is my weapons. But to me, these are my ladies. They bring goodness, darkness, an end, or an even better beggining. The beautiful designs of a high caliber machine gun are more sexy to me then any women I've ever seen. The sound of a shotgun is more tantalizing then Marilyn Monroe's voice. There is something about these Black Widows that I take care of that just have an attraction to me. I know there only machinery, but they are much more then that. They have personality, they have style, grace, sometimes an attitude, and a beautiful sound. I treat each one like a queen, and they repay me by keeping their sexy ways.

 

So when some guy says it's just a gun, it's more then that to me. It's my life, my sweat, my tears, my parents, my rules, my love. These tools of life are truly amazing and I will find more uses for them one day, but for now I clean, repair, and maintain. For one day I will be ended by my loves, the same way my father was, and the same fate as thousands every year, thanks to my beauties.

[Vercetti21]

My father remarked "Sh*t, at this rate it's going to be raining pitchforks and ni**er babies when we get back home"

Although this line felt extremely akward, odd, cheesy and out of place, I quite liked the underlying theme within this piece, repeatedly reffering to the gun and it's love/hate relationship with the protagonist.

 

Yeah, there was some tense-switching, missing punctuation marks and bad grammar at times, but all-in-all it's a pretty decent piece with plenty of room for improvement. You're laying a good foundation for yourself here. Just be sure you're constructing your work together is MS Word or any other word processor with spelling and grammar check, and use those tools to your advantage. Also, focus more on detail. Too much detail can drench the piece and overshadow the plot, but at times it never hurts to squeeze every ounce of juicy adjectives you can come up with out of the nouns you describe. Address the senses; at certain moments, what is the character smelling and how does it make him feel? Nostalgic? Nervous? Subtle hints like this can give depth to the characer, shown by the way he percieves the world.

 

And work on dialog. I've found that this is pretty easy to catch on to if you read through comic books and movie scripts, or if you just watch a lot of movies altogether. Think: if someone said "it's raining ni**er babies" to you, would you take them seriously? Could the reader take your character seriously? Is it realistic?

 

Hope to see some more work from you soon.

[Ronnyboy]

Thanks for the criticism. My grammar errors probably came from a dark lighting and not being able to see what I was typing. I will have to work on that though. This one was kind of rushed, which is what may have caused that tense switching. I am usually descriptive, but I figured it would ruin this piece, guess I was wrong.