Sunday 11:29 P.M.

They thought it was ecstasy, but it was mostly meth. Instead of writhing on a dance floor, they ended up kneeling in a dimly lit unfinished basement, with a weathered ottoman between them. Sticking out of one of the cracks in the leather was a wad of forty-eight dollars. Next to that was a revolver.

Corey picked it up first.

Pete was surprised that his jaws could clench any tighter. When the hammer clicked, he thought it was a shot. He felt a pain in his gut and he waited for Corey to collapse.

Corey didn't collapse; he handed over the gun. Pete knew he had to match his friend's bravery, for the sake of everything. He took the gun, held it to his head, and froze time.

When it started again he was soaked in sweat. The gun felt slippery in his hand. He squeezed the trimmer. It clicked.

Again he thought it was a gunshot, figured his thoughts were the sloppy hangover of a life already ended. When it continued, he realized his mistake, and put the gun down on the ottoman.

Corey picked it up and put it to his head and pulled the trigger. Click.

This time Pete knew it was a click. He was getting used to the sound. He did a mental calculation. Then he came to a realization. If it was going to happen it was going to happen. He took the gun from Corey and put it to his head. When it didn't fire again, he handed the gun back to Corey.

It took exactly twenty times for them to realize the gun was unloaded. This took the pressure off considerably. The passed another five minutes firing the empty chambers at their heads, then they got the hell out of there.

They quit that dealer and resolved never to play Russian Roulette again. One time when they were drunk they broke that resolution, and ended up in a knife-fight. Pete got cut, but not too bad, and after that they never did it again.

--Dan Kilian

Another Basement
Mummy Dummy