"It's loaded with a hundred rounds of popcorn," the proprietor said, 
"so you can test out the yuvree. Soon as you're comfortable with it, I'll load 
it for real." He stapled the skin of Bud's forehead back together so it'd heal 
invisibly. You could pay the guy extra to leave a scar there on purpose, so 
everyone would know you were packing, but Bud had heard that some chicks didn't 
like it. Bud's relationship
with the female sex was governed by a gallimaufry of primal impulses, dim 
suppositions, deranged theories, overheard scraps of conversation, 
half-remembered pieces of bad advice, and fragments of no-doubt exaggerated 
anecdotes that amounted to rank superstition. In this case, it dictated that he 
should not request the scar.