of steel but it's not. It's polyethylene recycled from old dustbins. Economical as well as light and durable. You must just be careful of hot ash, though. And look here, they've thought of everything: an ambidextrous safety catch!"
"Alright. That clinches it." Henry felt he could take no more of this. "That's very important. I can see the importance of an ambidextrous safety catch. It all makes sense. Thank you, I'll take one. One Fokker and one of those things this other shithead showed me. And lots of ammunition and all the attachments. Just wrap them up for me while I go to get my chequebook. I won't be a moment."
"Hey, but not so fast, Sir. Remember we said FOUR firearms were necessary? You've still got to select two handguns. Come over and let Clint and Adolf show you the best in the west. Adolf, let the gentleman try something with real knockdown capability."
Henry was becoming desperate. Somehow he had to get away. If there had been the faintest shadow of a doubt before, he now knew with an almost religious conviction that he would never own one of these horrible weapons. Fifteen minutes in City Guns had persuaded him, once and for all, never to have anything to do with firearms, ever again. And anyway his bladder was on the point of bursting. Reluctantly he moved to the other counter, hoping they wouldn't notice the dark patch, if indeed there was a dark patch.
"I'll take whatever you recommend," he lied in a strangled voice. "But for God's sake just…" What he was appealing for on behalf of a divine being was drowned out by the klaxon. Startled by the violent noise he turned to witness the entrance of a coloured man dressed in postman's uniform. Over one shoulder was slung a leather satchel from which large envelopes could be seen protruding, and in his left hand was a sheaf of letters through which he was beginning to shuffle.
"Morning all. Goeie môre." This was said in a cheery, slightly distracted tone.
"Freeze man freeze!!" The doorman jumped off his footplate, the Colt Government Model in both hands at arms length, two inches from the postman's right temple. "Who the fuck are you? Speak!" This was shouted in the voice of a parade ground sergeant major. The surprise on the postman's face was comical to behold.
"I'm the postman, Meneer. I deliver the letters."
"You lie, you fokken Hotnot! Action, Mike! Action, action!"
The ex-cop threw a switch and with a great clatter of unrolling metal three steel shutters crashed down, sealing off the shop frontage. The klaxon began sounding continuously and the lights went out. For a second or two all was blackness and then a spotlight snapped on, faltered, searched, found the postman, and held him transfixed in a pool of blinding white light.
Clint swaggered forward and placed the muzzle of his Magnum against the man's left temple.
"Punk," he said, but nobody could hear the deadly sneer in his voice so he shouted, "Punk! This is the most powerful handgun in the world and will blow your head clean off. You got to ask yourself… Ah Christ man! Turn that fuckin' thing off, I can't hear myself." He had lost the initiative and Mike was quick to push his way into Adolf's circle of light. He began to scream and froth with maniacal hatred.
"Jou teroris poes! Wat maak jy hierso? What's your name? (You terrorist cunt! What are you doing in here?) Where's your pass? How old are you? Where you steal that uniform? Don't lie to me, you Kommunistiese kont. Ek gaan jou vrek skiet. Ek gaan jou moer, jou donnerse Hotnot. (I’m going to shoot you dead, you bloody Hotnot.) We'll make you talk. When I say jump, you jump. Jump!" And he fired at the man's feet. Surprise had fled from the postman’s face to be replaced in succession by shocked disbelief and then terror. "Jump!" And he fired another two shots. The postman was so scared he couldn't have jumped if he was being shot at with a SAM 7 missile but the doorman jerked his head back and slowly crumpled onto his knees, teetered and fell on his face.
Ever resourceful, Henry had meanwhile taken the opportunity, under cover of darkness, to relieve himself against the sporting counter. He felt much more comfortable but somewhat dazed and weak. Adolf turned off the klaxon and switched on the lights. The unctuous salesman was still sighting down the barrel of his Vrekker, which he had managed to rig up on its tripod on the counter and to fit a cartridge belt into the breech, all in the dark and in the space of a few seconds.
They gathered in a group around the dead man and muttered the following commentary:
"Musta been a fuckin' ricochet."
"Jesus Christus. Allemagtige God, help my." (Almighty God, help me.)
"Now THIS is a fuckup."
"I'm jus' the postman."
"Shit."
"This…this is going to be trouble."
***
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