Laughs spouted out of the crowd.
“Are you sure about that?” Zeus said, and he pointed at the
shotgun.
Gonzalo let his eyes drop to the gun in his hands. The shot-
gun was gone. In its place was something closer to a toy gun.
Stuffed in its big, clear plastic barrel was about nine inches of
pink fabric. It was a T-shirt cannon. Gonzalo looked back up at
Zeus. He saw his own confused and frightened face reflected
back at him amid fire.
Gonzalo pulled the trigger, and the pink fabric wad thumped
Zeus in the chest and dropped to the mattress.
Zeus laughed, and the Thunder echoed him with peals
that bounced off the walls and ceiling. Someone picked up
the clump of fabric and spread it to reveal a T-shirt with the
Arby’s logo on it. Gonzalo stumbled backward, staring again
at the T-shirt cannon in his hands, trying to understand. It
had been a shotgun. He’d felt the heft of a wood stock, of cold
steel. He hadn’t taken his hands off it since he’d picked it up.
He was losing his mind. This was how it happened. People
aren’t born schizophrenic. They grow up normal until one day,
from out of nowhere, their brain cracks in half.
Gonzalo swayed on the gooey mattress, trying to keep his
balance, but he toppled over and landed on his back. Hands
converged on him. Grabbed him. Pinned him down. Fingers
hooked through the straps of his mask.
Zeus stepped into view, towering even more over Gonzalo
272
