He’d never bought a gun before. Truth to tell, he’d never used one or even held one. Not a real pistol. Like most of the First Nation gangers, he’d bought himself a "Saturday night special"—a jury-rigged, single-shot zip gun, picked up for about twenty nuyen from a bartender in a dockside tavern. But—again like most of his First Nation colleagues—he’d never used the weapon, never intended to use it. Owning a zip gun, carrying it in his waistband, wasn’t much more than macho posturing. He knew that a few of the gang leaders had real guns; one had even put a slug into the leg of a rival ganger. For most of the others, a gun was more a prop, like a jacket with the gang colors, not a tool to be used.