Great Shoot-Out,’ he said. ‘And then steak’n French Fries and ice cream all round. Fudge ice cream. Maple walnut ice cream. Butter Brickie ice cream. Chocnut and Pineapple and Mint and Chocolate Chips…’
The Mallard girls were all squealing with joy and I saw in Charlie’s eye a reflection of my own simple juvenile greed. It was Bunty who said, ‘Do you mind? My stomach’s still wrapped round my tonsils,’ and led the way, behind Hugo, to the shooting stall.
Having no sons, my father taught me to shoot. I brought down my first pheasant at twelve, and parted from blood sports at fifteen, but I’ve always kept a soft spot for funfairs.
You could say I’d shot all over the world, from target practice at a pound for two bullets in Russia, to flying monsters in Paris, to activated comedy popups in Tivoli. Lead me to Madame Tussaud’s and there I’ll be in the fun parlour, mowing down planes in an airfield.
The Great Shoot-Out had none of that kid stuff. Four guns were trained on four cut-out Mid-Western town backdrops through which, on an endless belt, cattle rustlers appeared and vanished. You got a second to shoot and reload. Six out of six rustlers got you a free replay. Three free replays, if your loading arm hadn’t broken, got you a woolly bear to take back to mother. There was another twist. If you shot a rustler and missed, he shot back at you. With a bang and a little red light. I kid you not.
Charlie tried first, and it shocked her at any rate. At the first burst of counterfeit counter-fire, she flung herself back on the pram and woke Sukey, who started to yell, in competition with the stallholder, a large Greek with black curly hair, who was explaining tetchily that all the explosions were totally harmless. But Charlie’s nerve had expired, and she fired her five other shots without winging a rustler; though they didn’t get her actually, either.
The Data-Mate, stepping up casually, killed all the rustlers, got a free reload, killed them again, and then got overconfident and missed the one that dodged out through the bar-flaps.
Johnson shot and made a hash of it.
I had an unfair advantage, through standing there watching the sequences. I got the one on the jail roof, the one through the bar-flaps, the one through the hotel window and the one who jumped out the waterbutt. I waited, and got the one who peeked out of the stable door. The last one jumped from a Wells Fargo van and I got him right through the heart.
Hugo kissed me with fervour and Grover said, ‘You bang the guns this time.’ I offered the rifle to Bunty, who turned it back.
‘Don’t be mad, you’ve got a free shot. Go on. Hell, we only shot policemen in Liverpool.’
They all said go on, so I did it again.
This time Donovan, Hugo and Grover all kissed me, while the stall-owner snatched back the gun and broke it as if he planned never to use it again. Then he handed me over my bear.
It wasn’t quite as massive as Panadek in his gorilla suit, but it was a fairly near miss. I could see why takings might be low if they had to pass these things over too often. The cramp in my left arm explained why they didn’t run very much risk.
Silence fell on the Mallards, Sukey and Grover as six pairs of eyes switched hopefully back and forth between my face and the bruin’s. Grover said, ‘The men died. Jonah died them.’
‘They were just pretend men,’ I said, and knelt. ‘Everyone is to hold Joanna’s bear for a little. Grover hold it first.’
It was as big as Grover. He put it on its feet in the dirt, seized a ring on its chest and looking at us expectantly, tugged it.
‘My name,’ said a thick, oily voice next to Grover, ‘is dear old Brownbelly Bruin, your Lover Bear. Stroke your Lover Bear. Kiss your Lover Bear. Take your Lover Bear home to bed with you. And remember. Only Love beats Milk, baby.’
There was an assorted silence. Grover looked smug. Charlie and Bunty both looked queasy, for different reasons.
The Mallard girls were all squealing with joy and I saw in Charlie’s eye a reflection of my own simple juvenile greed. It was Bunty who said, ‘Do you mind? My stomach’s still wrapped round my tonsils,’ and led the way, behind Hugo, to the shooting stall.
Having no sons, my father taught me to shoot. I brought down my first pheasant at twelve, and parted from blood sports at fifteen, but I’ve always kept a soft spot for funfairs.
You could say I’d shot all over the world, from target practice at a pound for two bullets in Russia, to flying monsters in Paris, to activated comedy popups in Tivoli. Lead me to Madame Tussaud’s and there I’ll be in the fun parlour, mowing down planes in an airfield.
The Great Shoot-Out had none of that kid stuff. Four guns were trained on four cut-out Mid-Western town backdrops through which, on an endless belt, cattle rustlers appeared and vanished. You got a second to shoot and reload. Six out of six rustlers got you a free replay. Three free replays, if your loading arm hadn’t broken, got you a woolly bear to take back to mother. There was another twist. If you shot a rustler and missed, he shot back at you. With a bang and a little red light. I kid you not.
Charlie tried first, and it shocked her at any rate. At the first burst of counterfeit counter-fire, she flung herself back on the pram and woke Sukey, who started to yell, in competition with the stallholder, a large Greek with black curly hair, who was explaining tetchily that all the explosions were totally harmless. But Charlie’s nerve had expired, and she fired her five other shots without winging a rustler; though they didn’t get her actually, either.
The Data-Mate, stepping up casually, killed all the rustlers, got a free reload, killed them again, and then got overconfident and missed the one that dodged out through the bar-flaps.
Johnson shot and made a hash of it.
I had an unfair advantage, through standing there watching the sequences. I got the one on the jail roof, the one through the bar-flaps, the one through the hotel window and the one who jumped out the waterbutt. I waited, and got the one who peeked out of the stable door. The last one jumped from a Wells Fargo van and I got him right through the heart.
Hugo kissed me with fervour and Grover said, ‘You bang the guns this time.’ I offered the rifle to Bunty, who turned it back.
‘Don’t be mad, you’ve got a free shot. Go on. Hell, we only shot policemen in Liverpool.’
They all said go on, so I did it again.
This time Donovan, Hugo and Grover all kissed me, while the stall-owner snatched back the gun and broke it as if he planned never to use it again. Then he handed me over my bear.
It wasn’t quite as massive as Panadek in his gorilla suit, but it was a fairly near miss. I could see why takings might be low if they had to pass these things over too often. The cramp in my left arm explained why they didn’t run very much risk.
Silence fell on the Mallards, Sukey and Grover as six pairs of eyes switched hopefully back and forth between my face and the bruin’s. Grover said, ‘The men died. Jonah died them.’
‘They were just pretend men,’ I said, and knelt. ‘Everyone is to hold Joanna’s bear for a little. Grover hold it first.’
It was as big as Grover. He put it on its feet in the dirt, seized a ring on its chest and looking at us expectantly, tugged it.
‘My name,’ said a thick, oily voice next to Grover, ‘is dear old Brownbelly Bruin, your Lover Bear. Stroke your Lover Bear. Kiss your Lover Bear. Take your Lover Bear home to bed with you. And remember. Only Love beats Milk, baby.’
There was an assorted silence. Grover looked smug. Charlie and Bunty both looked queasy, for different reasons.
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