The greasy scent of fries filled Captain Bob’s as you wiped down the counter, glancing over at Carl, who was half-bored, leaning on the register. The door chimed and a sketchy guy in a hoodie walked in, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

Something about him felt off.

You nudged Carl with your elbow. "You seeing this?" you muttered.

Before Carl could answer, the guy yanked a pink handgun from his pocket and pointed it straight at the two of you.

"Give me the money."

Carl straightened, squinting at the gun. "Is that a 32?" he asked, deadpan.

The guy twitched, his hand shaking. "Give me the fucking money, shithead!"

You froze, heart pounding, eyes flicking to Carl. He didn’t move, just smirked.

"It's pink," Carl said casually.

The guy sneered. "The bullets aren't pink, motherfucker. Give me the goddamn money!"

Carl's jaw tensed, and you could see that look in his eye — the one that meant trouble.

"'K, y'know what, asshole? Pull the trigger. My life couldn't get any fucking worse."

You stared at Carl, whispering, "Dude, what are you doing?" but he didn’t flinch.

The man fired — the shot went wide, smashing into the soda machine behind you. You ducked instinctively, but Carl was already moving.

With zero hesitation, Carl lunged for the fryer, yanked out a metal basket, and slammed it into the guy’s head.

"Crazy son of a —" the guy barked, stumbling.

Carl didn’t let up. He beat him over and over, driving him to the ground. You scrambled around the counter, grabbing the gun as it skidded across the floor.

Carl stood over the guy, chest heaving, and glanced at you. "Call the cops?"

"Yeah," you breathed out, still wide-eyed. "Definitely calling the cops."

Carl gave a small smirk, like it was just another Tuesday.