Snufkin looked at the gun. He cradled it in his hands.
What the fuck
He looked at Little My. “Why are you giving me this?”
Little My grinned, before laughing a wheezy laugh and hopping off of the windowsill, to the inside of the house.
Snufkin didn’t even know how to use a glock. Why the fuck did Little My give him a glock.
Later, in the woods, he practiced with it, aiming at empty glass bottles balanced on fallen tree trunks. Little My had left a barrel full of bullets at his campsite, so he wasn’t concerned about running low.
Why the fuck did Little My have a barrel full of bullets? Where did she get a fucking glock?
Then, all of a sudden, in walked R. J. Wokling, famous author and known terf. It all made sense now. It dawned on Snufkin what he needed to do.
There stood R. J. Wokling. She narrated the tweet she was writing out loud: “If trans people exist, how come one of my book characters isn’t trans? Checkmate, liberals.”
Snufkin was filled with rage. He calmly raised the glock, a sharp, cold glint in his eyes.
He fired the glock.