finger guns

I really hadn’t wanted to do this, but I didn’t have much of a choice. I made a little bit of a production of turning the “gun” to point at the liquor bottles behind the counter, gathered up my will, and screamed, “Ka-bang! Ka-bang!”
My verbal incantations have actually gotten more sophisticated and worldly over the years, not less.
I know, right? It shocks me, too.
The spell was just basic kinetic energy, and it didn’t really hit much harder than a baseball thrown by a high school pitcher—a regular pitcher, not like Robert Redford in The Natural. That wasn’t really enough power to threaten anyone’s life, but it was noisy and it was more than enough energy to smash a couple of bottles. They shattered with loud barking sounds and showers of glass and booze.
“Holy crap!” shouted the cashier. I saw that his name tag read STAN. “Dude!” He flinched down, holding his arms up around his head. “Don’t shoot!”
I pointed the paper bag at him and said, “Give me all the money, Stan!”
“Okay, okay!” Stan said. “Oh, God. Don’t kill me!”
“Money!” I shouted.
He turned to the register and started fumbling at it, stabbing at the keys.
As he did, I sensed a movement behind me, an almost subliminal presence. It’s the kind of thing you expect to experience while standing in a line—the silent pressure of another living being behind you, temporarily sharing your space. But I wasn’t standing in a line, and I whirled in panic and shouted, “Ka-bang!” again.
There was a loud snap of sound as pure force lashed through the air and the glass door to a freezer of ice cream shattered.


Ghost Story Chapter 31, Page 335