"Amazing work you do with your company, Mr. Highwind," the weapons dealer said, signing his name.
"All I did was fly a plane," Cid said, taking he clipboard back and stepping away. "Aren’t you married?"
"No, no, no. Nothing like that, I’m just saying its rather impressive getting same day delivery on a Sunday with no stupid hassles or being put on hold."
"Yeah. Look, mind if I look around a little while the boys unload the stuff?"
"Of course, browse away. Feel free."
Cid turned away to look at the displays, grumbling about the man’s sugar intake and swearing under his breath.
"Holy shit," he exclaimed, seeing a certain gun display with a large sign, that read: NOT FOR SALE. STOP ASKING!
There was something very wrong.
There wasn’t anything wrong with the gun, exactly. It had obviously been kept in pristine condition. Nothing was wrong with the case, either. Even the lettering was perfect; fancy and loopy, but easily to read.
"Oh, that," the dealer replied happily. "Pretty rare, that. Antique, too. Not every store has a Death Penalty on its walls, now does it?"
"Where in the fucking hell did you get that?" Cid demanded.
The dealer was too lost in his storytelling to notice Cid was almost rabid with rage. "Donated, too. Strange thing, really. They said some sort of alien wandered into a hospital or something. Just when you’re told they all died summoning one deadly thing or other, another one flies through a window. Wouldn’t worry about it, though. They said something about the thing being in the Midgar Mental Hospital or something, so we’re all quite—did I say something wrong?" he asked, suddenly finding his feet two feet above the ground.
"How much?"
"Can’t you read? It’s not for sale."
"How about I cut you a deal?"
"How about I don’t call the police?"
"No charge."
"No deal."
"There’s a lot of places to stash a corpse on a plane."
"So I can breathe if I let you have it. Sounds like a very good deal, yes, definitely, can I go down now?"
"One more thing,"
"Please don’t kill me—I mean certainly."
"Where’s the Midgar Mental hospital?"
‘Dear god, please be going there to check yourself in,’ the dealer thought, wondering how he’d explain any of this to the police—let alone his wife.