Sanitize Me

He spotted it in a pile of rubbish behind a burnt out telephone box; a length of steel pipe sticking out of a brown paper back of the kind you get given to help carry prepackaged soundwiches. He tossed down the stubby roll up cigarette and peered around. The street was deserted and there was no movement behind the windows opposite.

The gun was hefty and old, a revolver straight out of a western. He released and flipped open the cylinder, surprised that he knew how, and found four bullets nestling there. The grip was worn but sat comfortably in his hand. He inspected it for several minutes before remembering how exposed he was. Instinctively he wedged it down the back of his trousers under his coat, before thinking better of it. As he started walking it ocurred to him that he probably ought to report it or hand it in or something. He wouldn't. This was an opportunity, a rare thing.

Queensway was different today, absent was its menace. Young men, blinded by their own voices yelling into mobile phones got out of his path. Young women with tight jeans and visible bra straps hid, successfully, their disdain. Pram partnerships opened up their roadblocks that he might pass. In Macdonalds the smile behind the counter was genuine.

Later, in the pub, he mulled over what he should do with the thing. He'd daydreamed of having one before of course, but that plan no longer held any sense.

He could turn vigilante, a masked hero, fight crime. What crime? The only criminals he knew were the guys he bought weed and the odd couple of pills from. Not only would that be small fry but also counter productive.

He could turn to crime? He supposed he already had, but holding up a gas station or a bank held no appeal. An art gallery? And then what? Besides, most of the art he loved could hardly be rolled up and smuggled away in a guitar case. The art he loved was the grand gesture or the sisyphean endeavor.

It was a week later when he strode into the national gallery, grabbing the first security guard and pressing a muzzle to his temple. He marched the man up the steps silently while the building exploded into a panicked stampede about him. At the manager's office he yelled down the lady behind the desk until she led him to the deepest vault.

He was only in there with his two hostages for a few minutes but by the time he walked them back the way they had come the place was empty and when they emerged onto the front steps, watched by thousands from Trafalgar Square, the police were ready. The hostages he released immediately and then he followed the police's instructions to the letter, lying face down, spread eagled on the warm stone. The first officer landed a heavy knee to his back and the second kicked away the little plastic cap gun. He watched the officer pick the thing up with a pencil through the trigger guard, like Columbo he thought, and turn to him grinning. Ah, a sense of humour, he thought.

After the police had checked the building for accomplices or explosives the manager led a pair of detectives down to the vault. She shook as she keyed in the code. In the centre of the room sat an old, rusty birdcage locked with a heavy duty padlock and inside, sat on the perch was a hefty old revolver, straight out of a western.