Capp Gun (Extended And Edited)
Incident 10) Capp gun (Extended and edited)
“Happy Birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear-”(And this is the point where half the people say Prancer, and the other half say Damon) “Happy birthday to you.” (And this is the point where Uncle Rip shouts from the back: “Whatever your name is.”) And after that everybody laughed, except his nana, who hates it when her grandson is called “Prancer”, and gets an attitude every time he is addressed in such a manner. (“Damon is his name and that is what people should call him,” she would say.) Of course (being now “officially” five) Prancer didn’t understand any of this. Even if he did, it didn’t matter, there was only one thing that his brain was saying to him: PRESENTS!!!!
He blew out his candles, and reached into his cake (momentarily forgetting the presents), pulled out big piece, and went to town. Chocolate instantly covered the rim of his mouth, since the piece was twice the size of the hole he was trying to fit it in.
“Prancer! How-many-times-have-I-told-you-bout-eating-with-your-hands? Huh, now we’ll get you a piece if you just hang on!” This was his mother: A nice, but strict woman with a temper. And sometimes that could be a deadly mix.
Cramming the rest in his mouth, he got down from the table, and looked around. Already, everyone had separated and went to do their own thing. Wiping off his icing mustache, he went inside the house to get something to drink, and cool off from the killer heat. With no other kids around except for his cousin who only spoke Chinese (no one knew how) and his neighbor who wiped his boogers on everybody, he went for his father. He found his dad on the couch with his best friend. Well best friend besides him and his mother, (but from a different aspect). It had been his best friend of over 20 years, helping his father through the good and the bad times, making him feel better like all friends should. Sure, he had other pals, but they don’t quite help him as much. For 2 and ½ decades, only Budweiser could. Not that his father was a drunk, no if you think that you got it all wrong. See, his father was what you call “a conventional” drinker. He came home had his 4 to 6 pack of beer, and he was fine. Not drunk. Well, sometimes, when he had a bad day at work, he would drink. . .maybe a little bit more (about 7 or 8) and get sorta drunk. But not - all out, jumping off the roof drunk, no. He would just laugh a lot more and make really sarcastic remarks (and maybe stumble a bit too). But he never beat him or his mother, and never got seriously out of control so they didn’t really have a problem with it. In fact Prancer liked him when he was like this. It was always fun playing “do you remember what you said last night?” the next morning.
His father saw him, put down his beer on a holster, and stood up. He was a tall man, and as tall as an ox.
“Here’s the birthday boy!” He said as he picked Prancer up and swung him about. When he put him down again, Prancer said, “Daaadd. Please go talk to mom.”
“Bout what son?”
“Tell her I’m ready to open my presents!”
“Well, why can’t you tell her?”
“Ohh, believe me I tried. But she’s talking to that fat lady from Church, and she won’t listen to me!”
He squatted down to Prancer’s level, looked him in the eye and said:
“Prancer, you know how she is. She loves to talk, and once she starts, she has to say everything she can think of before she’ll be quiet again. There’s no way to stop it. It’s like trying to jump 30 feet in the air, or sit on the ceiling; it’s impossible.”
“Will you try to talk to her anyway?”
“Alright I’ll try, but there’s no use. It ain’t gonna help.”
About an hour later a voice sounded: “Prancerrr, it’s time to open your presssents.” When he heard this, he broke from the bathroom so fast, he had forgot to button his pants. So they went straight to the floor, causing him to trip and fall. After a bit of rolling, he sprang right back up like it didn’t even happen. He ran full speed through the open door and out into the backyard, where everyone was gathered.
FINALLY!!!!! After waiting for everybody to talk about EVERYTHING that ever happened in their lives, for what seemed like hours, it was finally time to see what was inside all the colorful boxes.
This is the part of the party where Prancer displays the reason he is not called by his real name (Damon C. Watson), by, well. . .hoping around like a fish on dry land. And these were jumps caused by joy, not by a Cat, whose bite caused an infection that spread to the brain, causing him to have no control over his limbs. Jumps of joy because it was time to open presents.
After he was finished hopping his way through the crowd, he stood in front of his parents, wide-eyed and anxious.
“Okay, Prancer this first one’s from Uncle Rip. . “ His mother held it towards him and he snatched it from her quickly. “..Now I don’t know what this is. It felt pretty light.” She gave Uncle Rip and angry look, which he returned with a toothy grin. Good ole’ uncle Rip
After 5 seconds had gone by, he stared tearing, giving no recognition to the card on top of the box. When the paper was ripped apart, he dug deep into the box and brought out a pornographic magazine. “Hustler?” He whispered.
“Mom, what’s this? It looks like fun.” Holding up the cover, which was filled with a half naked woman, he gave his mother the most excited smile she had ever seen. There were gasps and eye coverings, before Uncle Rip plucked the magazine from his hand. The smile faded instantly.
“Just playing there little Buddy, you ain’t quite old enough for this yet. Maybe some day though.” The momentary disappointment was abandoned as that same hand that held the magazine was now filled with cash. A lot of cash.
His mother’s scowl worsened, as she thought ‘hell no it won’t ever happen’ but his dad didn’t know whether to laugh or be mad. He managed a straight face, which was good enough for his mother.
Soon enough (too soon for Prancer) he had more money, 2 movies, clothes, a TV, and a new watch. It seemed as if the fun had lasted only 5 minutes. But, at least there was one present left. It was a medium sized box, which he grabbed and had opened in no time. He reached into the sea of styraphone chips, and brought out two guns in a plastic wrapper.
“Cap guns.” His father read the title (with more enthusiasm than any 30 year old man should have about little fake pistols). It with fake enthusiasm, but he took the guns out of the plastic wrappers, and spun them on his fingers. It seemed the guns came with a holder and a belt, which he strapped on and stuck the guns in. This was his favorite present of all.
“Go ahead, John Wayne, you look just like a cowboy. Hey how about we play the Cowboy game? Huh, don’t that sound like fun?”
“WOW! A real Cowboy game, do you think I’m good enough for that?”
“Oh definitely, now hand me one of the guns.”
Prancer handed him a gun. After the capps were loaded in both guns, Prancer’s dad said:
“Now, what you do, is get somebody to count to three, and who ever pulls their gun and shoots faster, wins.”
Prancer’s face lit up.
“Cool! Mom, count to three for us. Dad, since you don’t have a holder, just use your pocket. I’m ready when you are.”
His mother cleared her throat, and smiled as everyone else looked on.
“Okay, one. . .two. . .threee. . .”
Of course, since it was Prancer’s first time playing, his father slowed his draw. But when his son whipped the gun out with surprising speed and pulled the trigger, he didn’t hear caps. He heard a bullet. Two. Three.
And before, he could react there was blood all on his midsection. He fell to the floor and looked at his son, who was staring at him, thinking it was part of the game. This was a capp gun, and capp were supposed to come out, so how did bullets come out?
He died wondering that very thought.
The capp gun was passed to many people after the investigation. Luckily it never spit out bullets again.