Kevin Brennan Writes About What It's Like
I come from a strange land, in a distant time, where and when we gave children toys that appeared to be human appendages but were actually miniature firearms. Yes, and these weapons shot potentially maiming projectiles with tiny explosives on the ends of them, so that “putting out your eye” might be the least of the heinous consequences of misuse, or “accident.” You hated your little brother. You know you did. Every time he gave you that stupid look that said “you’re not the boss of the world,” you wanted to put his eye out and wipe that grin off his face. Suddenly, like a gift from the Topper gods, you are given a gun that shoots rockets and bombs, and best of all? It looks like a finger. Like the amputated finger of a Caucasian department store mannequin.
Yes. I had one. For one brief, shining moment, I owned a Sixfinger. I was boss of the world. Until I shot at my little brother and it was taken away forever…
“Sixfinger, sixfinger — man alive! How will I ever get along with five?”