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He held the weapon tightly in his hand. The leather grip felt warm and enticing, almost as if the weapon were an extension of his own body. He knew that beneath the warm grip lay a cold metal, waiting to shock somebody’s skin with its temperature. He had come to think of the weapon as being an entity in itself. It seemed to have moods, sometimes as black as the night, but other times as warm as a hot summer’s day. He found it particularly ironic. This weapon was meant to kill. The thought had been circling round in his head all day. As he stood there he could feel his own body’s temperature rising and suddenly he felt sure he was going to pass out.
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