"If I were a cop, this is how I'd point my gun."
The bearded man in the parking lot behind the supermarket pulls a finger pistol from the waistband of his surprisingly clean jeans and points it at me as I jog past, splaying his legs in an awkward lunge-squat and squinting his left eye. His partner - an equally-bearded but dirtier version of Officer Shooter wearing at least three hoodies - shakes his head disapprovingly.
"That's not how it goes. You gotta cock it first."
"Like this?" the guy says as I glide out of his crosshairs, tilting his head to the left.
I'm not sure he understands why I start laughing.
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