Mimic Apparatus
Words, Fiction
2018—03      
Denver, CO

I am inside the gun shop and nervous as fuck. 

I’ll probably be fine. I mean, I think I’ll be fine, because I don’t look anything like me. No one’s cared to look at me twice, which means I fit in just fine. Big beer belly, stubble, baseball cap, and a bit of a swagger that borders on limp. The hunting type that wouldn’t look odd in a place like this. I’ve got that dirty blond hair, unkempt enough for the outdoorsy crowd, but not too out of hand for anyone to think I’m a hobo. They need to assume I’ve got the money to spend and can spend it easy. Although lord knows how long it took me to save up for the gun. The store clerk brings me the revolver I ask for and shows it to me with creepy pride and joy. You’d think he invented the thing himself with that kind of glee. I hold it in my hand, and try to make it seem lighter than it actually is. Like I’m a big man who knows what he’s doing.

“What on Earth you plan on catching with that?” asks the clerk.


Excerpt from Mimic Apparatus, a Times New Human story. 


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