Faust

Quartz and malfunction

        The place feels messier every time I visit Tungsten Filament bulbs on the ceiling illuminated the whole room. A few sets of workbenches in the middle, a L-shaped counter by the east wall. Metal folding chairs, and violin cases are all over the place.

       This room is like an armory, with enough firepower to win the Mexican-American war. Rifles, pistols, sub-machine guns, pump-actions, you name it.

        On the wall, in instrument cases, on workbenches, and in metal cabinets by the west wall. Cold irons from across the world all came to this place. With the gun business monopolized by the Russians, their gunsmiths and shops have all the things you may or may not need. And Glasgow is the biggest one in town so if you can't find what you want here, you can't find it in Noch.

       Three of the luthier's man is chatting by barrels containing fuck knows what. A man is casually dissembling a Glock on a dirty mattress in the corner. Couple more by the work benches, busy with examinations and modifications. There's a jukebox next to the door I just went through, two men are tossing coins to decide who gets to choose the next song.

       A pool table with worn-out green carpet close to the north wall by a 6 panels hardwood door. A bored-looking girl with a black beanie is smoking on the edge of the table while a lad in shoreline jacket is trying to get the 7 ball. Both have a bracelet full of silver pieces.

         Those two are new.

         A young man pushes open the door at the end of the storage room with a cart of plastic boxes full of cartridges. Two tough-looking fellows guarding the entrance to the loading area outside.

         I still remember the first time I was introduced to the place. The sheer amount of everything made me stand at the entrance for half a minute until another customer pushed me. Back then I couldn't even get my hands on a
Colt 38. Now anyone can get a 9mm or those one-used Chinese 'Tu qiang'.

        Reaching the conclusion that I'm getting old. I quicken my steps to follow Luthier in his kingdom.
                                     ***

         Couple of fellows noticed me walking in. The ones that knew me shrugs with a smirk, the ones that don't avert their eyes once they saw Malcom next to me.

         Passing the jukebox, across the counter. Luthier takes off his other glove and throws both of them on the table.

         "Now." He puts both hands on the bench and leans forward. "What can I do you for eh?"

         "Check-ups," I say as I pull out my 1911 and Fn 509, unload them, and place them on the table. "It's been a while since I use them, I did some basic maintenance this morning but thought I better let the pros take a look." I tilt my head slightly forward. Malcom smiles but the sagging skin around his left corner lip makes it look like he's smirking.

"Damoh!!" He turns around and shouts. "If you can't get the bloody ball in after five focking minutes, you might as well give up! And trobhad!"

The kid in the shoreline jacket ignored him and took another shot..... and fails. He swears something and throws the cue stick to the girl smoking. The girl smothers her cig by the pool table and starts aiming for the 7 ball too.

Damoh jogs through the crowded storage room. Standing on the other side of the bench next to the luthier with an insufferably arrogant expression and a slight contempt in his eyes, sizing me up and down. Frowning like the view in front of him is a conundrum.

Please give me a reason to put you through the wall. I beg you.

"When you're done with standard shit. Get these two through a test drive in the back, three rounds each would be enough." Luthier says while double-checking the chambers.