I'm sitting in a room, and there is loud music, people dancing, laughing, smiling, and I am thinking about the effects my AR-15 would have on their bodies and psyches. They don't (can't) know how much I want to pull out my gun and commit murder here, but I want to show them, make them fear me. They already do, some of them, I can tell from the way they move away from me when I walk, or how there is a space around me, wherever I sit or the way their eyes won't meet mine; they fear me, but not as much as they should. I want to teach them, pull the sleek killing machine out from under a jacket, cock the load, stand up slowly. I would watch as one noticed me, the wild fear in his or her eyes as she turned away and screamed, but nobody would notice because the music is too loud. Then I would raise the weapon and the laser sight would be visible through the smoke as I targeted the head of the one who had seen me first, and a painful grin would stretch my face as I depressed the trigger and discharged a round, like a load from a demon-cock, a burst of light as this person's head exploded, the strobe light making the splatter amazing, captivating, cinematic. I laugh in hoarse peals as I begin to spray the cheerful crowd, and in less than thirty seconds, before anyone has a chance to react really, fifteen or more are dead. I try for body shots mostly so that I can let them know they are dying, that this handsome, grinning maniac who was a quiet, impressive man was now killing them, they can gasp and scream in the too-loud, shitty music, they were happy, but I am miserable, and they will pay for my burning, my constant inferno of agony, with a shorter lapse of agony, and then a long sleep. I spray and spray, and they're trying to hide now; there is nowhere to go, I have blocked off the exit with myself, and there is an outward spreading of dead and dying. I'm screaming laughter, depressing the trigger cheerfully, and the city in my heart is collapsing, burning, but I'm standing in the middle of it, tears and sweat streaming down my face, maybe some blood too, I hope there's some blood. For Christ's fucking sake, I hope there's blood. I continue to blast away, then reload another extended clip as the gun clicks empty. Shoot, shoot, I tell myself. It soothes me to see those who are still alive crawl away, leaking blood, and I scream at them, "Go, go, you can fucking do it!" I don't know if they hear me. I don't care. I empty another clip, they're almost all dead, some of them screaming at me, probably begging for mercy, which I have none of, and I target them. None will escape. Not a one. With a sigh, I go to reload, and suddenly I'm buying a Redbull for four dollars, and I say, "Thanks, you dumb slut," to the bitch who is selling it to me. She looks puzzled, but I just say, "If I kill you, would you be mad at me?" Then I walk away. I do not have a gun on me tonight.