Story code: ST-000362
Part 1: The Stalled Check
The pen clattered against the glass display case as Elias pushed the completed federal background check form forward. Instead of taking the sheet to his computer, the man behind the counter brought a massive, grease-stained hand down flat against the paper. The thick gold ring on his index finger cracked against the glass, pinning the document in place.
Elias stared at the hand, a severe tremor starting in his own fingers. He tried to pull his arm back, but his knuckles knocked against the edge of the display, rattling the glass. The air in the shop smelled of copper, gun oil, and stale coffee. Elias kept his eyes fixed on the heavy hand resting over his signature. The transaction had been completely standard up until this exact second. He had selected the matte black 9mm handgun, handed over his driver’s license, and filled out every box in black ink. Now, the process was completely stalled.
The store owner, a man whose embroidered shirt pocket read Mac, leaned his weight over the counter. He dragged Elias’s plastic ID card across the glass with his thumb, stopping it an inch from Elias’s trembling fingers.
“I am looking at a man who has never held a firearm in his life,” Mac said, his voice a low, grating rumble that carried through the empty showroom. “And I am looking at a man who is sweating through his shirt in a room set to sixty-eight degrees.”
Elias swallowed hard, feeling the tight collar of his button-down shirt cutting into his neck. He needed to get out of the store with the heavy cardboard box sitting just out of his reach. The cold metal inside that box was the only thing that mattered. The only thing that could buy him time.
“The form is completely filled out,” Elias said, fighting to keep the wobble out of his voice. “Everything is accurate.”
Mac did not lift his hand. He tapped his thick finger against the paperwork. The rhythmic thud echoed in the silent shop. Elias glanced over his shoulder at the front door. The deadbolt was thrown open, but the neon OPEN sign cast a glaring red glow over the dark parking lot outside. The shadows between the parked cars seemed to stretch and warp. He turned back to the counter, frantically wiping his damp palms on his slacks.
“People come in here for sport, or they come in here for defense,” Mac stated, leaning even closer. “You do not look like a sportsman, Elias. You look like a rabbit caught out in the open. I am telling you right now, I do not run checks for rabbits without knowing what is chasing them.”
“That is not a requirement,” Elias said, his chest tight. “You just need to submit the form.”
“I own the building, the inventory, and the computer,” Mac replied. He picked up the ID card, flipping it end over end. “That makes me the requirement. You live on the north side of the city. Quiet neighborhood. Good schools. Not the kind of place where a man suddenly needs a nine-millimeter with a flush-fit magazine and tritium night sights.”
Elias watched the ID flip and catch in Mac’s massive hand. Every second ticking by felt like a physical weight pressing down on his chest. His heart hammered wildly, the pulse visible in the frantic twitch of a vein at his temple. He could not afford a delay. He reached for the ID, but Mac smoothly pulled it back, dropping it beside the pinned paperwork.
“Tell me what you are planning to do with it,” Mac demanded. “Because guys who shake like that usually end up making a mess for someone else to clean up.”
“Personal protection,” Elias said, repeating the phrase he had practiced in his car for twenty minutes before walking inside. “Just like the form says.”
Mac scoffed, finally lifting his hand from the paper only to cross his arms over his broad chest. The cardboard box containing the 9mm remained strictly on Mac’s side of the glass. “Personal protection means you want to feel safe in your bed. You do not want to feel safe, Elias. You look like you are getting ready for a war.”
Elias looked at the matte black slide visible through the cutout in the cardboard box. His breathing grew shallow. He shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the escalating tremor, his fingernails digging painfully into his palms. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Mac’s gaze roamed over Elias’s neat but disheveled clothing, taking in the untucked hem of his shirt, the mud splattered on his dress shoes, and the dark, bruised circles under his eyes.
“I am asking you to finish the transaction,” Elias said, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “I have the cash right here.”
He pulled a thick envelope from his back pocket and dropped it on the glass. The thud of the paper hitting the counter did nothing to change Mac’s posture. The store owner merely stared at the thick stack of bills protruding from the torn flap.
“Money is not the issue,” Mac said softly. “The issue is that you are terrified. And terrified men with loaded magazines are unpredictable.”
Mac reached under the counter, breaking eye contact for the first time. The distinct, metallic sound of a heavy latch sliding free echoed from the shadows beneath the register. Elias took a rigid step backward, his eyes darting from Mac to the front door as a heavy steel object was hoisted upward.
The pen clattered against the glass display case as Elias pushed the completed federal background check form forward. Instead of taking the sheet to his computer, the man behind the counter brought a massive, grease-stained hand down flat against the paper. The thick gold ring on his index finger cracked against the glass, pinning the document in place.
Elias stared at the hand, a severe tremor starting in his own fingers. He tried to pull his arm back, but his knuckles knocked against the edge of the display, rattling the glass. The air in the shop smelled of copper, gun oil, and stale coffee. Elias kept his eyes fixed on the heavy hand resting over his signature. The transaction had been completely standard up until this exact second. He had selected the matte black 9mm handgun, handed over his driver’s license, and filled out every box in black ink. Now, the process was completely stalled.
The store owner, a man whose embroidered shirt pocket read Mac, leaned his weight over the counter. He dragged Elias’s plastic ID card across the glass with his thumb, stopping it an inch from Elias’s trembling fingers.
“I am looking at a man who has never held a firearm in his life,” Mac said, his voice a low, grating rumble that carried through the empty showroom. “And I am looking at a man who is sweating through his shirt in a room set to sixty-eight degrees.”
Elias swallowed hard, feeling the tight collar of his button-down shirt cutting into his neck. He needed to get out of the store with the heavy cardboard box sitting just out of his reach. The cold metal inside that box was the only thing that mattered. The only thing that could buy him time.
“The form is completely filled out,” Elias said, fighting to keep the wobble out of his voice. “Everything is accurate.”
Mac did not lift his hand. He tapped his thick finger against the paperwork. The rhythmic thud echoed in the silent shop. Elias glanced over his shoulder at the front door. The deadbolt was thrown open, but the neon OPEN sign cast a glaring red glow over the dark parking lot outside. The shadows between the parked cars seemed to stretch and warp. He turned back to the counter, frantically wiping his damp palms on his slacks.
“People come in here for sport, or they come in here for defense,” Mac stated, leaning even closer. “You do not look like a sportsman, Elias. You look like a rabbit caught out in the open. I am telling you right now, I do not run checks for rabbits without knowing what is chasing them.”
“That is not a requirement,” Elias said, his chest tight. “You just need to submit the form.”
“I own the building, the inventory, and the computer,” Mac replied. He picked up the ID card, flipping it end over end. “That makes me the requirement. You live on the north side of the city. Quiet neighborhood. Good schools. Not the kind of place where a man suddenly needs a nine-millimeter with a flush-fit magazine and tritium night sights.”
Elias watched the ID flip and catch in Mac’s massive hand. Every second ticking by felt like a physical weight pressing down on his chest. His heart hammered wildly, the pulse visible in the frantic twitch of a vein at his temple. He could not afford a delay. He reached for the ID, but Mac smoothly pulled it back, dropping it beside the pinned paperwork.
“Tell me what you are planning to do with it,” Mac demanded. “Because guys who shake like that usually end up making a mess for someone else to clean up.”
“Personal protection,” Elias said, repeating the phrase he had practiced in his car for twenty minutes before walking inside. “Just like the form says.”
Mac scoffed, finally lifting his hand from the paper only to cross his arms over his broad chest. The cardboard box containing the 9mm remained strictly on Mac’s side of the glass. “Personal protection means you want to feel safe in your bed. You do not want to feel safe, Elias. You look like you are getting ready for a war.”
Elias looked at the matte black slide visible through the cutout in the cardboard box. His breathing grew shallow. He shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the escalating tremor, his fingernails digging painfully into his palms. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Mac’s gaze roamed over Elias’s neat but disheveled clothing, taking in the untucked hem of his shirt, the mud splattered on his dress shoes, and the dark, bruised circles under his eyes.
“I am asking you to finish the transaction,” Elias said, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “I have the cash right here.”
He pulled a thick envelope from his back pocket and dropped it on the glass. The thud of the paper hitting the counter did nothing to change Mac’s posture. The store owner merely stared at the thick stack of bills protruding from the torn flap.
“Money is not the issue,” Mac said softly. “The issue is that you are terrified. And terrified men with loaded magazines are unpredictable.”
Mac reached under the counter, breaking eye contact for the first time. The distinct, metallic sound of a heavy latch sliding free echoed from the shadows beneath the register. Elias took a rigid step backward, his eyes darting from Mac to the front door as a heavy steel object was hoisted upward.