Fuck no, but you're not sure you can whammy all three at once.

“I think it’s a bad angle,” you answer, leaning one hand back on the counter. Nate tilts his head, a little surprise by your apparent confidence. It’s a fake, of course. You’re not sure how durable you are, and even if guns probably don’t work great on you, automatic weapons can REALLY throw out a lot of bullets, and you’re sort of a sitting duck. Of course, you don’t see how letting them see you sweat is gonna’ help. “I mean, wouldn’t a **** in a place like this drive away potential investors? Especially if it’s someone from the community’s flagship. And a long-term resident with an established venue? Just seems … menacing to the kind of people you’re selling to.”

“Um.” You enjoy him seeming thrown off, hesitating to respond. It also demands his attention, which is vital considering the black tentacles slowly rising behind the man at the door. “That … could happen.”

“And then if you want someone to witness a crazy, bitter old guy snapping, doesn’t that sort of put you in a shitty position? What if they grow a conscience later?” The man at the door tries to scream, but one tentacle covers in mouth while another binds his arms and legs tightly. The third slips in between his palm and his weapon’s handle, stopping him from being able to fire it to get anyone’s attention. “Aren’t you kind of unnecessarily putting yourself at risk?”

“I’m confident we could come to a satisfactory arrangement,” he argues, hints of irritation creasing on his brow. “In either case. But this is kind of dragging on for a negotiation.” He raises his gun to head level, aimed directly at you. “A swift decision would be in your best interest. No more stalling.” You cast an eye over his shoulder, the door guard’s eyes rolling back as he passes out and stopping struggling.

“Absolutely, perfectly reasonable!” you tell him warmly before turning to his other man. “Point your gun at him and kill him if he shoots anything at all.” Nate turns, eyes wide with shock as the man simply nods and holds him up with his considerably-nastier weapon.

“What the fuck, Steve?!” he hisses while you use the distraction to let the guy at the door go, one of your shadowy tendrils slipping around Nate’s wrist, then twisting in a sudden and horrific Indian burn. He screams suddenly, his hand spasming and dropping his weapon. While you get the feeling he’s not opposed to killing you, it makes you pretty sure he’s not exactly a gunslinger. The tendril lets him go to knock the pistol over to you, which you retrieve and aim at Nate.

“I know, good help’s hard to find these days.” He stands stock-still, but facing you now, a small bead of sweat appearing on his forehead. “Nate, you should probably think about heading home. And not coming back.”

“Hey, my ass is on the line here, too!” he stammers out. “It’s nothing personal, but if I do what you just said, I’m a dead man. They’ll just send someone else. You think I matter to them? This solves nothing.”

“Then I don’t feel super-motivated to keep you alive,” you sigh, raising your arm so the barrel is lined up with his head. You don’t intend on actually killing him. The police getting involved raises uncomfortable questions, you don’t need that shit.

“Whoa! Whoa, okay, let’s … let’s be rational here!” he says hurriedly, inching away a little, but nowhere near close enough to the door to run for it before you could perforate him. “We go, you don’t see us again, I’ll make it work! I don’t know what they’ll do to me, but I know I can’t outrun a bullet.”

“That’s the sense of perspective I was looking for!” you chirp, then wave the gun to one side. “Go on. Shoo. Take your shaved bears with you. Oh, and be a doll and bring me the guns?” You direct the last question to Steve, who does so before shaking out of his stupor. He immediately stumbles back, seeing he’s unarmed and you are most certainly not, but Nate grabs his arm and directs him to the door. After hauling up the **** man, both of them slip away, sound of footsteps speeding up when they cross the threshold.

“Hrm,” the old man grunts. You half expect him to grab one of the guns, but they just sit on the counter.

“Generally, ‘thanks,’ is considered the correct response, not the saltiest grunt you can muster,” you tell him as you set the pistol on the counter as well.

“Thanks,” he says, tone even and unimpressed. “Still don’t have what you’re looking for.”

“Come on, can’t you even TRY here? I just saved you from getting shot to pieces by two lowland gorillas and a ninth grader on his way to his first homecoming dance.”

“And I appreciate that. But I don’t know what you really want it for. And I don’t think you’re going to tell me.” You consider it, but … you don’t know what he is. Or if he’s on the same side as you. You don’t even know if you really saved his life, but from the looks he was giving those guys, probably. There’s too much that could go wrong. “I don’t trust you. Your … people. If we’re calling you all that. You’re in a hurry to get something done with a specific object, it’s probably bad. Always has been for this town. So, thanks, but take the guns and leave.”

“You’re killing innocent people,” you snip at him, grabbing the weapons. You briefly consider why he doesn’t take them, but you’re too angry to do it right this second. Maybe you can come back when he’s not here? ‘Or you could shoot him and take what you need. He’s just some elderly prick, would anyone even care?’ You ignore the voice as best you can, heading towards the door. “Y’know, screwing over people who rescue you is a really bad practice. Next time, if anyone’s around, they might just watch.”

The door slams violently behind you as you storm back to your car, make sure the safeties are on the weapons and their chambers are cleared, then put them in your trunk. You drive to the river that runs through the middle of the city, headlights off and night-sight on while you look for a discrete place to get rid of them. Part of you wants to keep a gun, but if those jackasses were about to **** someone with them, they were probably unregistered or implicated in something bad to get heat off them if someone did the ballistics. Finding a satisfactory spot under a bridge some twenty feet up from the river below it, icy-cold water rushing back towards the ocean, you haul them to the edge, then dump the guns into the water.

“Assholes,” you gripe to yourself as you return to your car and start heading back towards campus. All of them, honestly. Sure, the old man could have been nastier, but he was still being a roadblock. And what did he mean “if we’re calling you that?” You’re still a person, even if you’re dead. And how did he know that, anyway? And those wannabe gangsters … did Northwoods always suck this much? Is this new, or are you just finally able to look at it head-on?