“The people you call misfits are my best pals.
So what, they had to pick up a gun, that got your attention, didn't it?” Robert asked with a mischievous grin while I stared at him, bewildered.
Suddenly, the pen I clung so tightly to didn't have much weight compared to his brown pistol, the same pistol he came into the room with, waving at us.
“Don't act like you're better than us, Simon,” he said with an intense look. “We're all sinners, you only hide behind grammar,” he added.
“The pen felt mightier,” I tried defending.
“Well, how's this for mighty?” Robert replied and hit me hard on the head with the sole of his gun.
“Let's see your pen give that effect,” he concluded while I grimaced in pain, wondering why I got into this argument.
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