FA+
Shop
Anonymous prompt: Grace negotiating with her arms dealer
4 years ago
[[re-posting this here because I hate the way FA makes you upload a writing doc to post stories, and it feels easier to just post a title and text in journal form; will be doing the same with my last few prompts. I'm open to feedback, though, so if posting my writing as journals is unappealing to y'all then let me know. I honestly don't care about faves when it comes to my writing stuff, I'm a man who thrives on comments.
BTW, I'm still taking prompts for future writing shorts this month, so if you want to see a character of mine in a certain (sfw) scenario, leave a comment and I may devote 100+ words to it.]]
Sam made a good living off of what he did. Nebraska, like too many other states, didn’t have much in the way of gun restrictions, but there were still plenty of folks who would go the extra mile to make sure their purchases went untraced and unspoken, and that extra mile brought them to Sam’s doorstep.
Felons, preppers, white trash gangsters—none of them were as unnerving as the lady that stomped through his door on the second Sunday of every other month.
Here’s what was weird about Grace (her name, if the embroidered patch on the coveralls she sometimes wore was anything to go by): she bought a lot of body armor. Tactical, military-grade shit. She seemed to go through arm guards like it was her job, and aside from those she was buying what added up to an entire suit over the course of each year.
The rest of her purchases were more like Sam would expect; tons of buckshot, some magnum rounds, a new gun every once in a blue moon, and—uh—about a dozen tear gas canisters per visit.
Pretty tame, all things considered.
But the armor thing was, again, weird, because Sam was pretty sure that most militia larp dudes didn’t even blow though armor that fast, no matter how many Punisher skull tattoos they sported. He found himself wondering frequently what exactly Grace was doing to render tactical gear unusable in a matter of months.
He got an answer on a Wednesday, five days earlier than he knew to expect Grace’s presence at his little mobile home-slash-storefront. She came thundering through his door, soaked through by rain and looking worse off than he’d ever seen her. Grace was intimidating at the best of times—tall for her gender and built like a marine, with a scowl as constant as the knife on her hip—but this time in particular, glaring through wet hair and blood falling freely from a massive wound on her forearm, Sam was tempted to call the cops for the first time in his life.
She stomped up to his makeshift counter (a folding table covered in NRA stickers and cigarette burns), wordlessly dropping something in front of him, and Sam tore his eyes away from her death glare to look. It was an arm guard, bloodied and wet, with deep gauges like an animal’s teeth marring its surface. One of the straps had been torn cleanly from one side where it had been previously attached. Grace held up the wound on her arm, eyes still boring through Sam's skull,
“Straps were faulty,” she growled, “I expect a discount this week.”
Sam didn’t even try to argue, just nodded his head mutely while doing his damnedest not to cower under her gaze. He offered to let her use his first aid kit, trying to diffuse the tension, and she grunted an affirmative before mercifully turning her gaze toward his wares.
When Sam shuffled back to the counter, metal case clutched under one arm, Grace was peering at her reflection in one of his display cases, running her tongue over her teeth. In under ten minutes she had her arm cleaned, stitched in the worst spots, and wrapped tightly in gauze that probably hadn’t seen daylight since 2002. Sam watched on, holding his tongue as his mind whirled with possible explanations.
She had to be some kind of hunter, was his first thought. Only a big predator could have torn up her arm like that. But then, if that’s how her arm guards kept getting damaged, it raised even more questions… namely, what kind of hunter went out to wrestle their prey on a regular basis?
Sam’s brain bounced around in his skull, desperately trying to connect the dots, as he gathered up Grace’s usual purchases. Finally, he landed on a conclusion that made some amount of sense: dogs. People who worked with big, angry dogs always wore those pillowy things on their arms, right? Sometimes entire suits made of padded material, trying to get the dogs to bite on command without risking their limbs to a mouthful of teeth. That was it, Sam concluded as he made his way back to the counter. Grace was some kind of attack dog trainer, possibly working for shady dog-fighting outfit, and probably opting for body armor over weird pillow suits because her guns and ammo guy sold it in bulk. And the guns and ammo were for hunting or doomsday prepping or some other normal gun nut shit.
Perfect. Solved. No more losing sleep over this, Sam, you nosy idiot.
Grace paid with a wad of assorted bills, as she typically did, and Sam counted them out while she loaded her items into two of the dozens of milk crates that were lying around for that very purpose. Satisfied with the payment (armor discount excluded), Sam stuffed the cash in his lock box before fixing his customer with a wary smile.
“Alright, well, take care, then,” he said, waving weakly as Grace hefted the crates into her arms. “And—uh—happy hunting.” Grace blinked, briefly losing the scowl as she processed his words. Sam felt a bead of sweat trickle down his neck.
Then, like a screeching hinge, Grace threw her head back and laughed.
“’Happy hunting’! Hah!” she guffawed as she shouldered her way out the door, “That’s one way to look at it!”
Once the laughter was drowned out by the revving of a pickup truck, Sam slumped back into his folding chair. Huffing a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes and thought about pit bulls.
BTW, I'm still taking prompts for future writing shorts this month, so if you want to see a character of mine in a certain (sfw) scenario, leave a comment and I may devote 100+ words to it.]]
Sam made a good living off of what he did. Nebraska, like too many other states, didn’t have much in the way of gun restrictions, but there were still plenty of folks who would go the extra mile to make sure their purchases went untraced and unspoken, and that extra mile brought them to Sam’s doorstep.
Felons, preppers, white trash gangsters—none of them were as unnerving as the lady that stomped through his door on the second Sunday of every other month.
Here’s what was weird about Grace (her name, if the embroidered patch on the coveralls she sometimes wore was anything to go by): she bought a lot of body armor. Tactical, military-grade shit. She seemed to go through arm guards like it was her job, and aside from those she was buying what added up to an entire suit over the course of each year.
The rest of her purchases were more like Sam would expect; tons of buckshot, some magnum rounds, a new gun every once in a blue moon, and—uh—about a dozen tear gas canisters per visit.
Pretty tame, all things considered.
But the armor thing was, again, weird, because Sam was pretty sure that most militia larp dudes didn’t even blow though armor that fast, no matter how many Punisher skull tattoos they sported. He found himself wondering frequently what exactly Grace was doing to render tactical gear unusable in a matter of months.
He got an answer on a Wednesday, five days earlier than he knew to expect Grace’s presence at his little mobile home-slash-storefront. She came thundering through his door, soaked through by rain and looking worse off than he’d ever seen her. Grace was intimidating at the best of times—tall for her gender and built like a marine, with a scowl as constant as the knife on her hip—but this time in particular, glaring through wet hair and blood falling freely from a massive wound on her forearm, Sam was tempted to call the cops for the first time in his life.
She stomped up to his makeshift counter (a folding table covered in NRA stickers and cigarette burns), wordlessly dropping something in front of him, and Sam tore his eyes away from her death glare to look. It was an arm guard, bloodied and wet, with deep gauges like an animal’s teeth marring its surface. One of the straps had been torn cleanly from one side where it had been previously attached. Grace held up the wound on her arm, eyes still boring through Sam's skull,
“Straps were faulty,” she growled, “I expect a discount this week.”
Sam didn’t even try to argue, just nodded his head mutely while doing his damnedest not to cower under her gaze. He offered to let her use his first aid kit, trying to diffuse the tension, and she grunted an affirmative before mercifully turning her gaze toward his wares.
When Sam shuffled back to the counter, metal case clutched under one arm, Grace was peering at her reflection in one of his display cases, running her tongue over her teeth. In under ten minutes she had her arm cleaned, stitched in the worst spots, and wrapped tightly in gauze that probably hadn’t seen daylight since 2002. Sam watched on, holding his tongue as his mind whirled with possible explanations.
She had to be some kind of hunter, was his first thought. Only a big predator could have torn up her arm like that. But then, if that’s how her arm guards kept getting damaged, it raised even more questions… namely, what kind of hunter went out to wrestle their prey on a regular basis?
Sam’s brain bounced around in his skull, desperately trying to connect the dots, as he gathered up Grace’s usual purchases. Finally, he landed on a conclusion that made some amount of sense: dogs. People who worked with big, angry dogs always wore those pillowy things on their arms, right? Sometimes entire suits made of padded material, trying to get the dogs to bite on command without risking their limbs to a mouthful of teeth. That was it, Sam concluded as he made his way back to the counter. Grace was some kind of attack dog trainer, possibly working for shady dog-fighting outfit, and probably opting for body armor over weird pillow suits because her guns and ammo guy sold it in bulk. And the guns and ammo were for hunting or doomsday prepping or some other normal gun nut shit.
Perfect. Solved. No more losing sleep over this, Sam, you nosy idiot.
Grace paid with a wad of assorted bills, as she typically did, and Sam counted them out while she loaded her items into two of the dozens of milk crates that were lying around for that very purpose. Satisfied with the payment (armor discount excluded), Sam stuffed the cash in his lock box before fixing his customer with a wary smile.
“Alright, well, take care, then,” he said, waving weakly as Grace hefted the crates into her arms. “And—uh—happy hunting.” Grace blinked, briefly losing the scowl as she processed his words. Sam felt a bead of sweat trickle down his neck.
Then, like a screeching hinge, Grace threw her head back and laughed.
“’Happy hunting’! Hah!” she guffawed as she shouldered her way out the door, “That’s one way to look at it!”
Once the laughter was drowned out by the revving of a pickup truck, Sam slumped back into his folding chair. Huffing a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes and thought about pit bulls.
