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After whipping up a fried rice combo and chatting with Kevin for a bit, Dexter sent him on his way. He hopped into his car and headed out to meet Mickey and Carl.
They were at a desolate patch of wasteland in the suburbs.
Mickey was perched on the hood of his beat-up car, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, looking like he didn't have a care in the world.
Carl was kicking around nearby, head down, looking for something to do in the dirt.
Hearing the sound of Dexter's engine, both of them turned around.
Mickey took one glance, lost interest, and went back to his beer and smoke.
Carl, however, kept his eyes glued to the car. He looked a little spooked, probably thinking Dexter was coming to chew him out because of Mickey's phone call.
Dexter parked next to Mickey's hooptie and stepped out to survey the area.
It was far from any houses, no neighbors to complain, and plenty of trees... if you ignored the weeds and trash, the scenery wasn't half bad.
"Mickey, you think this spot works for a shooting range?" Dexter asked with a smile.
Mickey nodded. "I think it's perfect. Whether it actually happens depends on what the lawyers work out with the city."
"The government fucks have a laundry list of requirements for a range. Just listening to it gives me a headache."
Dexter grinned. He got it.
City Hall was always a pain in the ass. That was exactly why he paid a lawyer to handle the red tape instead of doing it himself. It was too much hassle and not worth his time.
Dexter didn't waste any more breath. He waved at the kid. "Carl, don't just stand there like an idiot. Get over here."
Carl, not knowing what to expect, obeyed and walked over to Dexter's side.
"Mickey tells me you won't shut up about wanting to shoot a gun?" Dexter asked, amused.
Despite his nerves, Carl didn't hesitate. He owned it. "Yeah. I wanna shoot."
Dexter gave a faint smile, pulled the pistol from his waistband, and handed it to Carl. "Here. Knock yourself out."
Instantly, Carl's young face lit up. His eyes went wide, filled with pure, unadulterated joy. "For real?"
Dexter nodded. "For real. Two hands. Don't let the recoil snap your skinny arms."
"Okay!" Carl agreed instantly. He took the gun, his hands trembling with excitement as he ran his fingers over the metal like it was a prom date.
After admiring it for a moment, Carl gripped it with both hands, aimed at the empty air in front of him, and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The gunshot cracked through the air.
The recoil was punchy, and Carl was a scrawny kid. The kickback knocked him backward a step.
"Awesome!" Carl didn't care about the jolt. He was beaming.
"Keep going," Dexter said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting up.
Carl didn't need to be told twice.
Bang, bang, bang.
He emptied the magazine in one go.
His skinny arms were stinging from the recoil, but the adrenaline masked the pain.
"That was sick!!!" Carl felt like he'd never experienced anything this cool in his entire life. He was grinning from ear to ear.
Dexter smiled. "Give me the gun."
Out of ammo, Carl was cooperative. He reached out to hand the pistol back to Dexter—pointing the barrel directly at Dexter's chest as he passed it.
Seeing this, Mickey's eyebrows shot up. He instinctively barked, "Carl! Don't you ever pass a piece like that! Point the damn barrel at yourself!"
Carl paused, looking at the gun that Dexter hadn't taken yet. He looked confused. "But if I point it at me, that feels dangerous."
Mickey: "??? And pointing it at Dexter isn't dangerous for him?"
Carl thought about it, realized Mickey had a point, and awkwardly turned the gun around.
Dexter took the weapon, expertly swapped in a fresh mag, and nodded at the field. "Walk out about thirty yards. Find some stuff to throw in the air."
Carl had seen this kind of training on TV. He got it immediately. "Okay."
He ran out and found a rock about the size of his palm. "Dexter, is this good?"
"Works for me," Dexter called back. "Throw it."
Carl heaved the rock high into the air.
Dexter raised the gun, aimed, and—BANG—shattered the rock in mid-air with perfect precision.
Seeing this, both Mickey and Carl were stunned.
Mickey played it cool, keeping his face neutral, but internally he was seriously impressed by Dexter's aim.
Carl, on the other hand, dropped his jaw. "Holy shit! That was badass!"
"Keep 'em coming," Dexter said, cigarette dangling from his lips.
Bang, bang, bang.
Within minutes, another magazine was empty.
Every single bullet found its mark. Not a single shot wasted.
Carl sprinted back to Dexter, breathless and starry-eyed. "Dexter, how did you do that? Can you teach me?"
Dexter immediately shook his head. "Why do you want to learn?"
Carl didn't even have to think. "So I can blast some scumbags!"
"Heh. And what if some of those scumbags are as good as me?" Dexter asked.
Carl answered without hesitation, "Then I'll get even better than them!"
Current-era Carl was cute, sure, but he was definitely a budding little sociopath.
"Is that right? Well then, looks like you aren't gonna live very long," Dexter chuckled.
Carl was confused. "Why?"
"Because sooner or later, someone is going to turn you into Swiss cheese," Dexter's smile vanished instantly. His face went cold and serious. "Do you know what that looks like?"
Carl was startled by the sudden mood shift. He shook his head blankly.
Dexter didn't speak. He slapped in another fresh magazine, kept a stone-cold face, raised the gun at a small rock on the ground nearby, and unloaded the entire clip into it. Bang-bang-bang-bang.
"Imagine you are that rock."
"Your head, your chest, your gut, your little junk, your legs... all of it ripped apart by bullets. Bleeding out everywhere..."
"You think that's fun? You think that's 'awesome'?"
"Then, once you're dead, the guys at the funeral home shove you into an oven. Whoosh. They fire it up and burn you into a pile of ash."
"Still feel like a badass?"
Dexter delivered the words with a chilling, flat tone.
Carl had never seen Dexter like this. He was genuinely terrified. The fear was written all over his face.
Mickey was only handling it slightly better. He was spooked too. He was starting to suspect that Dexter hadn't just 'been in fights'—this guy had definitely killed people. Probably more than one.
Who the hell is this guy? Mickey asked himself silently.
Carl couldn't find his voice.
After letting the silence hang for a few seconds, Dexter's smile returned. He reached out and ruffled Carl's hair. "Until you figure out exactly why you want to use a gun, don't touch one again. I'm out."
With that, Dexter turned on his heel, got in his car, and sped off back the way he came.
It took a long time—until Dexter's car was completely out of sight—before Carl snapped out of it. He let out a long, shaky breath.
Watching Carl's reaction...
Mickey smirked slightly. "So? You scared?"
Carl stiffened up, his stubborn streak returning. "No. I ain't scared of nothing!"
"Heh. Then you really won't live long. The guys who aren't scared of anything? They're the ones who die the fastest," Mickey laughed.
"????" Carl didn't want to die. "Why?"
"Figure it out yourself." Mickey couldn't be bothered to explain. He slid off the hood of the car and landed on his feet. "Get in. Time to go to work."
Carl nodded with a complicated expression. He climbed into the passenger seat, his head swimming with feelings and thoughts he'd never had before.