The Gun Man part II

by tkos on August 17, 2012

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It was at this point that the man, grinning mischievously, reaches into the back pocket of his dirty jeans and pulls out a gun. Not a hunting gun in which to shoot animals for sport, but a revolver. A hand gun. A gun that he had in his pocket from the moment he saw us and lured us into this big empty, mysterious mansion.

Jaws dropped, Kimmi and I burst into nervous laughter, if only to disguise the fact that we were shitting ourselves. “Oh my God! He’s got a gun! He’s got a gun!” we both scream in nervous hysterics. The man reacts to our ‘laughter’ with a roar of his own and turns the gun on himself and points it into his belly! ‘Bang! Bang!’ he cries! A little bit of my wee comes out.

The hysteria calms as my heart pounds faster and faster. He returns the gun to his back pocket. The statement has been made. He is in control of the situation and there is nothing we can do. I turn to look at Kimmi, looking for answers, looking for help, but she, like me, is simply delirious in shock. Silence fills the room.

Kimmi and I both eye the door, remembering the front gates are locked. If we try and politely leave and he refuses, then we are clearly held hostage, if he accepts, then we are just straight out rude. If we just pretend nothing has happened, then perhaps we can ride out this awkward situation till dawn. Hopefully.

The man and his wife show us around this huge house that entraps us. Consecutive flights of stairs and through two separately deadlocked doors, we find ourselves on the second floor balcony, overlooking the unused pool and roaming turkeys. The man shows us to a room in which we are to spend the rest of the night. He points to the door on the bedroom and emphasises the importance to keep it locked. Then he takes me to the door to the second floor balcony, shows me the lock and emphasizes the need to keep it secured. He then shows takes me back to the verandah door and emphasizes the need for security by keeping it locked.  I can’t help but feel we are the potential prize in his own personal hunting game.

As he and his wife leave us in this big empty mansion, he switches off the last light and gives me a wave and a wink while he walks off into the night. I stand in total darkness with the keys in my hand to lock all the doors on my way back to where we are told to spend the night. I need the toilet.

With all doors locked, Kimmi and I talk ourselves out of the idea that this nice man is not a crazed maniac who likes to hunt trapped travellers that he lures off the side of the road and places in an empty mansion in which he does not live, yet has the keys to. It’s just ridiculous, as we hold each other tight, lay on the bed with one eye on the door knob, waiting for it to turn. Eventually that eye closes as we fall asleep.

The next morning we wake up alive, and quite relieved to be so. We hug again, in a way to congratulate each other on our absolute bravery in surviving a completely uninterrupted and eventless night. What heroes we are, I think to myself, quite proudly.

A little hungry, we pack our bags and attach them to our bikes out by the pool and the roaming turkeys. I pull out the Swiss army knife and begin cutting an apple into pieces for breakfast. The man appears  and smiles. As do we.  He suggests we go with him to his small dwelling in the corner behind the trees for breakfast before we leave.

Over breakfast he begins to describe me and my Swiss army fruit breakfast to his wife, with chuckles of laughter. I hold out my closed pocket knife for his wife to see with a wry smile on my face, knowing that I’m being made the fool, but all in good fun.

And in plain English, for the first time, the man says “That’s not a knife, THIS is a knife!” as he pulls out, from his trusty jeans back pocket, a six inch switch blade.





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