Chapter 4: Crazy

Charlie flicked back his wet black hair, and he shook off his wetness in the door way. He looked around the old, sleazy pawn shop, there wasn't much to see. A couple of fishing poles, some TVs, broken vacuum cleaners, and jewelry from lost causes. Finally, Charlie's eyes fell onto the half-rotten old man, he resembled the crypt keeper, and looked like he might be dead.

"Hello?" Charlie said, half expecting the old man to be in a coma.

"I heard you would be coming to see me. Oscar is quite fond of you. Come closer, so I can get a look at you," said the old man.

Charlie walked forward, hesitating at first because with every step the old man smelled more and more like a dead baby fetus at low tide.

"So do you know what I need?" Charlie asked.

"Yes, Yes I do. But before I sell it to you, you must promise that no innocent bloodshed will result from this gun." said the old man.

"Of course. The person who this is meant for asked for it. They need it." Charlie said firmly.

"OK. OK, kid. How does a Desert Eagle sound? Ever shot one of those?" said the old man.

Charlie nodded, he remembered when he was in a gang in high school, and he had to kill three people to get out.

"Well. Here you are." said the old man, handing him the hand cannon.

Charlie threw a 100 dollar bill on the counter, and he tucked the piece into his pants as he walked away.

"Do it for her Charlie. Remember everything is for her. She loved you," the old man said from behind him.

Charlie whipped around quickly, but the old man had vanished. Charlie shook away a shiver, and stepped out the front door. It was late now, and Charlie was getting tired. As he began the walk back to the Chinese restaurant, he wondered if he was insane. He had heard voices before, but he had never heard them this frequently. He always thought those voices were his conscience, but now he wondered what they really were. Maybe they were angels leading him in the right direction, or maybe it was the work of Satan, poisoning his mind with evil ideas. Either way, Charlie knew his mother loved him, and he knew he had to do it; for her.

He had reached the back door of the restaurant, and he slipped inside. He shed his clothes, flopped down onto the cot and tried to sleep. He thought about Billie Jean's slut-ass, he thought about Oscar and the basketball game he had promised tomorrow. He knew Oscar tired easily, and he could usually beat him, but despite his weight; Oscar could still hit a mean three. Maybe Charlie would throw a twenty on the game tomorrow. But above all, Charlie thought about his mother, he didn't even have a picture of her anymore, he had lost the only one in a fire in his old orphanage. He had stared at that picture for so long he had every dimple and line on her face memorized. He thought about her beautiful face, and he drifted away into a deep sleep.