Anton Chekhov (no relation) surveyed the racks upon racks of guns that lined the walls of his shop. Although many of them were black, each one of them possessed a dangerous sheen – gleaming hungrily like the alien from Alien. Their polished grips, some smooth, some textured, some wooden, some not, they cried out to be held, and more than held.
A drop of sweat rolled down Chekhov's forehead. He knew full well that he was in a short story, and he knew full well what that meant. He regretted now opening a gun shop, just for the sake of a lightly amusing pun. There was no way he could have anticipated the events playing out here, but look