The Rifle Spear

Groggy, head pounding unpleasantly, James woke up. Sun filtered in through the barred windows. He moved his hand to yawn, but sputtered at the pungent scent of polishing resins filled his nose, as his hand still held the polishing rag.
Despite his youth, his body still felt like a poorly oiled machine as he stood up. He had fallen asleep finishing the weapon.

He frowned. It still didn't feel like one of his father's weapons. Not in the sense that it wasn't a gun. But his father's weapons, once complete, had a living quality to them. Like picking up the gun, it would fire at any time. He never let him see the final process. But he knew it had something to do with the deep red rocks hunters would bring in on rare occasions.
That aside, he was quite pleased with the weapon. The simplicity of a spear. The firepower of a gun. He felt dangerous with this weapon. A clever switch would unlock the mechanism and let the bayonet swing in and out. He would need to test the weapon. But first breakfast.
He peered outside, a few people were walking outside, talking. No laughter, but thats Yharnamites for you.
He reached into his shopping bag and retrieved the loaf and the slice of bloody meat he gotten with his food.
Half-way through his meal there was a pounding at his door.