The sound of that fragging shotgun on burst-fire brings back too many bad memories of my last visit to a warehouse, and in my mind’s eye I see little Piers getting blown out of all human shape. Way down deep in my heart of hearts (or maybe half a meter lower in my contracting scrotal sack) I know that good old Bart has one of those three-round bursts earmarked for me. That he’ll grease me—preferably from behind, so there’s no chance of me reacting—and then claim that the light was deceptive or that I wandered into his killing zone or some drek. Translation: Oops, better luck next reincarnation. Not particularly satisfying, from my point of view.