Midnight Shadows
I don’t remember much at all from that night, to be honest. It was nothing but gunfire and spilled whiskey, but if you really need a testimony I guess I could do my best.

I was sitting at this bar, Sloane's, as I typically do on Friday nights, waiting for a few friends to show up. Everytime the door swung open I would turn around to see if it was one of said friends, and on two occasions it was. After both of my buds showed up I stopped monitoring the door, although it seems as if I should’ve. All I saw of the man was a shadow, an imposing figure that intimidated me but gave me no reason to fear at first glance. Maybe you know what I mean by that. The kind of guys who look big and tough and definitely are, but they’re kind guys who wouldn’t hurt anyone without just cause. That kinda guy. He shifted forward and the shadow grew larger until it was drowned out by a violent white flash and the smell of gunpowder.

I’ve experienced loud noise before, I mean, I’ve been to concerts and football games. But nothing else I’ve experienced was as loud as the sound of gunfire and broken glass in that bar. Glass everywhere. Spilt drinks, spilt blood, spilt corpses like a bad accident at a morgue. I just hit the deck and stayed still, sitting slightly splayed out against the bar’s sidewall. I didn’t make a sound so it would seem like I had some semblance of self-control. With every shell that hit the floor another body fell too. It was horrible, truly.

He had run out of ammo when he aimed his rifle right at me. His gun though, it was like nothing I’d ever seen. That rifle looked like it was made of polished glass and broken dreams. It had to be custom made or something. Maybe he found it? Who knows. What I do know though is that he tried to pull the trigger on me to no avail three times, each time signifying his reign of terror had run out of ballistic funding. He stared at me, slung his rifle over his back, and helped me up off the ground. He even slipped me a five dollar bill to cover the cost of my dispatched Jack Daniels. Not that I could buy another one, as he put the bartender on ice much like my glass of whiskey.

That was it though. Payed me and left. I never got his name, sorry I didn’t. I know it would’ve helped, I was just too panicked. Don't think he would've given me his name either.

So in short, he walked into Sloane's, shot up everyone but me, and payed for my drink he ruined with a hard wood garnish. I’d never seen a ruthless act of blind violence capped off with a friendly gesture. I wonder if he planned it, running out of ammo before me. Maybe it was a sick form of “natural selection”. All I know is I never want to be privy to an event like that again, nevertheless on the receiving end of a killers rifle.

Well, that’s all I know guys. I’m sorry if it wasn’t enough info for a lead. Call me if I can be of assistance again. Night. If I can sleep after this, that is