"Where is that damn cashier..." Ryan said to himself quietly, standing at the counter of the locally owned arms shop. Lightly rapping his fingers on the counter he looked over the rifles on the back shelf as the cashier, forty-two year old Rodger Fenton, his father's childhood best-friend walked up behind the counter, a wide grin on his face. "Sorry about that Ryan, just got in a new shipment." He said, leaning against the counter. "What'll it be today? The usual three-fifty seven rounds? You want a box of thirty-two or fifty?" Ryan looked at Rodger for a few seconds. "Yes, i want the fifty." Taking the box and of the hunting ammunition bullets, the bullet used for hunting not big-game but dangerous game, he walked out of the store, stepping into his sleek black 69' Camaro. The ammunition he bought could take a human's head off, he's seen it before in Anchorage an man was killed in a gang shooting outside of his old house, that is, when his parents and sister were still alive, a .357 magnum was used. The man had a body and a neck, but most of his head was shattered apart. Ryan quickly shook the memory away as he inserted the key into the ignition and turned it, the car roaring to life.