Marty had neither the time nor the resources to identify his targets. Morose and irritable, he spent hours with his rifle, bitter that their brief affair was almost over. Like meeting the perfect girl on school holidays and knowing he'd never see her again, Marty decided to make the most of his remaining time.

The Ruger was beautiful. Sleek and compact, its oil sheen was a potent pheromone to the fluttering thing in Marty's brain. Cool even in summer, the blued steel clove to his face whenever he sighted: at the television, the toaster, a neighbour's silhouette or the pulsing temple of his sleeping girlfriend. Each leapt large in the powerful scope, free from fetter and his to dandle without interference.

He did not want to hand in his gun.

**********

Marty took a sick day on the last Friday of the amnesty. Restless and depressed, he hired 'Lawrence of Arabia', again. For the seventh time he watched Peter O'Toole stagger from Turkish headquarters, beaten and raped almost to death. Later came Marty's favourite scene. Mounted on a white stallion, beneath the disapproving glare of Omar Sheriff, Lawrence regarded a fleeing enemy column and screamed with spittle-flecked mouth and wild eyes, 'No prisoners! No prisoners!' Unable to resist his passion and conviction, his entire army joined him in massacre.

Marty brooded in the gathering darkness. Lawrence's tormentors hadn't been part of the column. Yet his revenge had been absolute. Perhaps the death of any bride would grant Marty the catharsis he craved. One shot, one life - and goodbye to his lovely, lovely Ruger. The following day was Saturday; the office building he cleaned nightly would be deserted. The roof overlooked the place where he'd been arrested.

To be continued...