"People Are Strange"

                                    

                                          
“How about that one?”
The merchant turned around, following the young boy’s finger with his gaze.
“This one? .308, Lateran made. Like you, ah?”
His strong hands grasped the heavy rifle and took it off the gun rack, placing the beast in front of a fourteen year old Andy. A smile stretched on his middle aged face, giving the boy an encouraging look.
“See how it feels in your hands, champ. Good? You’re looking kinda wobbly down there.”
Andy managed to hold up the enormous gun for just a few moments, his frail little arms shaking and causing the muzzle to sway all around the lively bazaar. No one seemed to mind his display of ignorance towards the rules of gun safety, though.
“U-Um… It’s a bit heavy.”
“Heavy, yeah, maybe not fit for your lanky arms, ah? No worries, I got some Columbian imports, lighter caliber, lighter mass…”
He dropped the massive lead spitter back onto the counter and stretched his arms out, feeling them going stiff from the weight.
“Lighter, yes, p-please.”
Loud wailing of solicitors assaulted his ears, hundreds of different smells seeped into his nostrils, all native to this massive complex of makeshift stalls and booths. It was somewhat reminiscent of the grand plazas of Laterano, where masses gathered to sell and purchase products from within and outside the city. Where poor liberi farmers set up their snug, cozy kiosks, where the biggest sweets manufacturers swooped the gazes of every child in the vicinity with flashy firework shows and bright neons, where cheap, second hand clothes were thrown around and where Lateran francs made rounds, finding new owners in exchange for anything anyone could ever want. This, however, was far from that place embedded in Andy’s memory. The famed Scar Market, prized jewel of the desert based town of Taba - organizer of the infamous “100 Meter Merc Race.” The name of this event may vary, depending on who you asked.
“CHEAP BLADES! CHEAP BLADES, MOSTLY UNUSED…”
“MEATBEAST IN SALT! FOWL IN OIL!”
“HORN SHARPENING!”
“TAIL STRAIGHTENING!”
“WOUND STITCHING! SEWING SEVERED LIMBS! THIRD ONE’S FREE!”
“REMEDIES! REMEDIES FOR EVERYONE! SNAKE OIL, MIRACLE TONICS…”
So very lively and loud was the market, enveloped in an endless cloak of absurdity and filled to the brim with colorful personalities. Andy felt so incredibly out of place in this oasis of ruckus among the orange sands, feeling the West Kazdelian sun hot on the back of his neck. Fortunately, the gun salesman seemed nice enough. As long as the boy was willing to buy anything, anyway.
“How about this one? Should be lighter, it’s a twelve gauge, lead batter spewer!”
The merchant posed with the shotgun, sending a wink the boy’s way. He was looking quite damn cool like this. However…
“Twelve gauge…?”
Andy took another look at his lanky arms, a wide, purple-ish bruise spreading across the spot between his collarbone and shoulder, covered by the strap of his raggedy tank top. A keepsake, growing deeper in color with each bullet he fired, causing pain and keeping him up at night (along with the seeping homesickness and memories of a past long gone.)