WHILE THE NUT CASES RANT, HOW MANY MUST DIE

HOW MANY MUST DIE? BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT. I couldn't believe it. I finally got a gun. I'd wanted one all my life of course, but. . . “Sir, you were diagnosed with multiple personalities and as schizophrenic when you were two, and you've been in and out of Prison since you were fifteen. This is a Respectable, Responsible, Law Abiding Gun Store that would lose its reputation as such if we sold someone like you a gun. . .” was all I heard at every store. “But I just want to target shoot and hunt deer and pheasants,” I protested again and again. “That's what your current, peaceful personality says,” they would always reply. “But what about your more violent personalities. And your other. . .issue?” I never had an answer for any of these, for three of my personalities were rather violent, one of them extremely so. But I could usually tell when she was coming and so would make sure the gun was empty and the ammo put away before she got there. However, I'd tried to explain this the first few times and gotten nowhere, so I did not even attempt it anymore. So, of course, I was thrilled when I heard about the so-called “Gun Show Loophole” and then found out that there was a gun show coming to town a few days later. “If I still lived with my parents,” I told the elephant I shared my apartment with. “They wouldn't let me go, but since I'm on my own now, I can.” “Go for it, Jim,” he said. So, of course, I did. “A six shooter is fine,” I said. “I just want to target shoot and hunt deer and pheasants.” “If that's all,” he said, handing me the gun and taking my money. “Why don't you already have one?” I hesitate, making sure in my mind that the transaction is complete, then answer. “Because this is the first Local Gun Show since I got my own place and gun stores won't sell to someone with schizophrenia, twelve personalities, three of which are quite violent, and a criminal record going back more than half my life. But there are no checks at gun shows.” Before he can respond, I dash off and am out the door with my loaded six shooter and one spare clip I grabbed as I was walking out before anyone has a chance to stop me. I see a heard of deer walking down the street, but there are people too, so I keep my hand in check and engage my feet to follow them. As they and I alone turn onto a side street, the biggest one, walking at the back, suddenly turns around and faces me. “Why are you following us?” he says in a vaguely familiar voice. For a moment I stop, trying to place the voice. Then, suddenly, I know. The man who first gave me shock therapy. “DR. Marshhead!” I cry, raising my gun as the deer facade falls away to reveal my arch nemesis, the man I swore at thirteen I would some day repay for that electricity. “Prepare to pay for your crimes.” “Wait,” he cries. “What are you talking about young man, I'm not a doctor and I've never seen you before in my life.” “Lies,” I scream, and pull the trigger. As he falls, the horse beside him screams and runs at me, so I shoot her too. I hear one of the younger zebras trying to contact the alien mother ship with his beeper device, so I shoot him too. An older young lioness jumps at me, so I shoot her as well. I ready my second clip, knowing I will need it soon as a monkey and a crocodile from the group run at me. After killing them, I reload, then shoot the four charging unicorns. I empty my last two bullets into the two aliens that are about to attack me. That only leaves the crying and terrified looking little boy. “Better strangle him, or he could be a witness,” says a familiar voice in my head. “But they were just deer, lions, crocodile, monkeys, unicorns and aliens,” I tell it aloud. “Why would he care about them?” He looks up, and though the tears still run down and streak it, his face is flushed with anger. “They were my family, you Nut Job. My name is Charles Moses Winchester. Memorize my name and my face. Someday, when I'm older, bigger and stronger, they will be the lat thing you ever see and hear in this life.” Before I can respond, I hear sirens all around me, and then there are police everywhere. One of them picks up the child and rushes him off. “Drop the weapon Sir,” I hear from all directions at once. “It's empty, see,” I hold it up and put my finger to the trigger to show them. My one sane self points out too late that this is a mistake, for they open fire immediately and then all of my worlds collapse.