St. Louis Police Academy prides itself in the well-structured brick walls that surround about two dozen or so fine cats regularly every year. Inside its walls fidgeted the wet-nosed students who were learning to handle guns and handcuffs, and their well-groomed instructors who patrolled the halls to survey the progress of their pupils. On the outside, the windows were squeaky clean and sparkled the brightest in the 3 o'clock sunlight. The entrance was crowned by a spiffy gold sign detailing the name and purpose of the large establishment and assuring everyone of how important it was to the town. Below this sign stood two large, firm mahogany doors with gold-plated doorknobs, welcoming anyone inside but reminding each visitor of the strict atmosphere within. A young orange cat with a quivering, fluffy tail stood in front of those doors. Dressed in his best cuffed trousers, sweater vest, freshly-pressed blouse, and tie, the young feline thrust his chest outward slightly in a personal show of bravery and put a trembling paw on the doorknob, opening the large doors and walking inside.

An older calico cat with grey-tipped ears looked up from the desk to the right of the entrance. "Hello, young fellow," he said, absently stroking the fur beneath his chin. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I… I'm here to become a police officer," the younger replied, clasping and unclasping his hands.

"You are, are ya?" The older officer chuckled once, deeply, and beckoned the boy closer to the desk with a wave of his paw. As the nervous cat took a few steps closer, the gentleman opened a drawer and took out a stack of papers, placing them on the desk. "Alright, I'll need you to fill these out. Were you signed up already? No, just walked right through the doors expecting to win a badge, eh? I'm kidding, my boy. Just put your address here, and list any medical problems… And calm down, you're shaking more than a new-born kitten, mister…?"

"Calvin," the boy replied as he stared intently at the papers with wide eyes. "Calvin McMurray, sir."

-x-

"Alright, men, which one of you can tell me what this weapon is called?"

A handful of young cats sat in some very uncomfortable wooden chairs, seated in front of a projection screen where their instructor—Officer Marcus—was showing them slides of various weaponry. For the past few weeks, the hour-long weapons lecture had covered knives, blades, and various crude weapons used by numerous offenders. Calvin, seated in the middle of the group, had at first focused attentively on every word during the lectures, but over the days his ears had begun to droop with disinterest and he had begun to slump down in his chair like the men around him. However, Officer Marcus was showing them a new weapon on his slide today—a weapon that caused Calvin's heavy-lidded eyes to widen to their usual alarming size. He felt his paw rising quickly into the air, fingers stretching desperately skyward.

"Ah, yes… McMurray, is it?" Officer Marcus said, squinting in the dim light at the orange paw hovering above everyone's heads.

"Yes sir," piped up the young recruit. "That's a .45-calibur sub-machine gun, sometimes called a 'Tommy Gun' or 'Chopper,' developed by General Thompson. It's very compact, light, reliable, and has a large drum to hold about 100 automatic rounds."

Marcus stared at the young cat in surprise. "Very good, McMurray. This gun has of late become a favorite of many offenders because it's so powerful and easy to use. They were developed for use in the army but obviously that's not where it's being as frequently utilized." With a nod of approval, the older, brown feline removed the slide and put another one up for display. "Alright, who can tell me about this gun?"

An awkward pause hovered in the air above all the other recruits. Calvin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, eyeing the men around him. He didn't want to raise his hand again—the others sent him annoyed glances when he so eagerly answered Officer Marcus's question. Perhaps someone else would answer this time.

"Anybody? Come on, men, it's not that difficult. Stop acting like a bunch of lazy housewives after a long day's work," Marcus said, his tail twitching irritably behind him.

Exasperated with the general blatant disregard for the weapon on the screen, Calvin once again put his paw into the air. The black-and-gray cat beside him muttered something incoherent—something about having a brown nose. Calvin frowned at this, knowing very well that most people in the room had brown noses and wondering why it was suddenly so significant.

"McMurray again," Officer Marcus mused. "Alright."

"That's a Winchester. 1912 model, I think?" Officer Marcus nodded. "Right, the latest. It's a pump-action shotgun with a 5-round external tubular magazine. It's expensive, and can come in 12-, 16-, 20-, or 29-gauge caliber. I like it, but the handgrip can stick sometimes, so it can get annoying when you're trying to pump for another shot and it won't budge."

The other felines in the room turned to stare at him oddly as Officer Marcus slowly nodded his head. Calvin's previously-perked ears drooped slightly at the attention and he shuffled in his seat, drawing his legs closer together and folding his hands in his lap.

"Good, again, McMurray," Officer Marcus replied, exchanging the slides. "It seems you really know your gun models. Alright, can anybody besides McMurray tell me what this model is called? …No? Alright, McMurray…"

-x-

Calvin stood between two white barriers, his ears plugged by rubbery inserts to block out noise. On the other side of the barriers were other would-be officers, though he could not see them. Directly in front of his legs was another white barrier, but this stopped at his waist, giving him the chance to see in front of him. The view was of a long, open room, with nothing but a row of large sheets of paper hung on wires near the far side of the room. These drawings depicted nothing more than a featureless man from his waist to his head. Calvin's eyes were not on these rough drawings, however. His wide stare was on the small bench connected to the right barrier, upon which a Colt .38 Special Revolver rested. The metal barrel glistened in the light hanging over his head. It was fully loaded with six bullets, each aching to pierce the thin, white paper flesh of the man hanging at the end of the room. Calvin's ears were perked high, the tips shaking almost in rhythm with his tense tail.

"Alright, men," Officer O'Neal, a black feline with a serious face, declared. "It's time to step out and pick up a real weapon. You've listened to lectures long enough." He gestured with a sweeping paw toward them all. "Pick up your guns and begin firing at the targets when you feel comfortable. I trust you'll remember all you were taught in the gun safety course."

Around him, cats took up their weapons, pulling back the hammers and firing haphazardly at their targets. Bullets zipped through the edges of the paper or missed their mark completely, and grumbles of frustration began to rise in the room. Calvin, meanwhile, slowly put his paw on his Colt and picked it up, testing the weight and feel in his hand. The cool metal… It felt good. It was a heartless piece with no mercy at all. The control—the power—all resided in Calvin McMurray's tingling fingers. Slowly, his tight, anxious expression melted away and the corners of his mouth began to spread outward and upward.

"What's the matter, McMurray?" Officer O'Neal called out. "I've heard you're an expert on guns. Don't tell me now that you have one, you can't shoot it!" The man chuckled to himself at his own comment. The poor boy always looks terrified of everything, and his mind was always out in space. The gun must seem like so intimidating to hi—

Bam!

"Heh… Heheheh! Hahaha!"

O'Neal's ears flattened against his head. Calvin stood with his gun raised in front of him, smoke lingering subtly at the end of the barrel. At the end of the room, his target was still quivering with the impact of the bullet—which had successfully connected with the paper directly in the forehead of the featureless man.

"Well done!" Officer O'Neal said, surprised. "That was a lucky first shot!"

Calvin's head turned slightly and he peered over his shoulder at the older cat. "It wasn't lucky," he said in a voice that was significantly less timid than usual. He turned back to the target, pulled back the hammer, and pressed his finger quickly down on the trigger. Another bullet flew through the air with a loud zing! and collided with the target's chest, squarely in the middle. "That," he said with a twist of a smile on his lips, "was lucky. For him. I aimed for his heart!"

The recruits around Calvin backed away from their posts as the young boy fired another shot, and another. Officer O'Neal's eyes widened as the young boy shed his timid shell and stood with a firmer, more confident posture.

"Hahahaha!"

No, no. Not confident. That wasn't the word. O'Neal searched through his brain as Calvin ripped the earplugs off his head and loosed all six of his bullets. He pawed at the table, frowning, until he located another set of the shining ammunition and smiled again. The boy shoved the bullets into the gun, threw the hammer back, and began firing again with a fluid, rapid pace that unnerved his associates.

O'Neal settled on "crazy" to describe Calvin's loose posture. It wasn't a particularly sophisticated word, but it was the only thing O'Neal could think to use to describe the young cat's sudden change in personality.

"It's nice, isn't it, the Colt?" Calvin said, swiveling his head around to look at the cat nearest to him. The grey-haired feline nodded uncertainly, taking a step back. "I love the sound of the bullets leaving a revolver! It's not loud and noisy like a booming shotgun—just one quick, crisp BAM! and then the bullet's gone! Hahaha!" Calvin's laughter escaladed into uproarious hysterics as he tore his paper victim to pieces with the bullets, first puncturing all "vital" areas of the body before simply shooting every inch of the fake white flesh. His eyes were wide, but not with the fearful, quiet glances of before—his pupils were dilated, the veins were beginning to show through the milky surface, and the lower eyelid of his left eye was pushed upward in a slight twitch.

O'Neal finally snapped himself out of the dumbfounded stare he was giving the grinning, cackling young cat. Striding quickly forward, he laid a heavy paw on Calvin's hand as it shot out toward the pile of bullets with the intent of reloading. Startled out of his euphoric craze, Calvin sent an enraged glare at the officer. For a moment O'Neal feared the hot revolver would be turned on him, but upon seeing the officer's face, Calvin's expression immediately melted. He lowered the gun and let his arm hang limply by his side as if broken.

"McMurray…" O'Neal began.

"I'm sorry," Calvin squeaked, ears flat and whiskers quivering. He took a few steps backward, away from the larger man. "I'm sorry."

O'Neal nodded uncertainly. "McMurray, I… I don't believe the life of an officer is quite right for you."

"Y-Yes, sir. I'm sorry."

"I commend your enthusiasm—"

"Thank you, sir…"

"—but you come on a little too strong. It's not safe."

"I understand, sir…"

"The door's behind you, McMurray."

"Yes, sir."

Amidst the roaring silence of his peers, Calvin fumbled with the door and scuffled his way quickly out and down the hallway. A new recruit standing nearby waved at him in a friendly manner. Calvin attempted to smile and failed, walking quickly away from the mildly bemused young cat. He weaved his way through the halls of the academy and eventually made it to the large mahogany doors of the entrance—or rather, the exit. He hesitated a moment before shoving the doors open and running outside and down the street, flinching at the distant sound of the doors slamming shut.

Slowing to a halt a few blocks down the road to catch his breath, Calvin noticed the Colt revolver still gripped in his paw. His heart rate quickened and he turned in the direction of the academy, intent upon returning it. As he took a few slow steps forward he rubbed the metal of the gun against his palm, basking in the slightly-warm feeling of the recently-fired revolver. A shudder ran down his spine and through his tail. Without hesitation he slipped the gun into the back of his trousers and pulled his green sweater vest over it. Turning on his heel, he resumed his journey homeward. The corners of his mouth turned up and his lips parted slightly to form a fanged smile—and thus ended Calvin McMurray's dreams of abiding by the law.

Author's Notes: You guys I really hope I got the gun information correct. Don't shoot me if I didn't. (…Haha, "shoot." I made a funny.)