96x -

To the untrained eye, it looked like a standard handgun. To Marcus, it was a masterpiece. He had taken a specialized heavy slide, a hair-thin single-action trigger, and fused them onto a competition frame. Factory models didn't exist; it was the only one of its kind in the world. "Shooter ready?" the range officer called out. Marcus nodded, his heart hammering against his ribs. Beep! The timer shrieked. Marcus blurred into motion.

The neon sign above the console buzzed, casting a soft red glow over Leo’s worn notebook. For twenty years, his voice had filled the cars, bedrooms, and late-night garages of the city. He was the voice of , the last independent bastion of grunge, punk, and pure alternative rock. To the untrained eye, it looked like a standard handgun

With a final double-tap on the furthest paper target, he cleared the course and dropped his empty magazine. Factory models didn't exist; it was the only

can refer to a few different things, including a legendary alternative rock radio station or a customized racing pistol. his voice had filled the cars

The desert heat was oppressive, making the air shimmer above the iron targets of the USPSA competition. Marcus wiped the sweat from his eyes and adjusted the grip on his prized possession: a completely custom-built Performance race gun chambered in .40 Smith & Wesson.