Inspired by the rare, custom-built Beretta 96X racing pistols used in competitive shooting.
Leo looked at the massive stacks of vinyl and CDs that lined the studio walls. He didn't want to play a hit. He didn't want a grand, produced farewell. He reached for a dusty, unmarked jewel case—a demo from a local garage band that had never made it big but perfectly captured the raw, messy soul of the city. He flipped the microphone switch. Inspired by the rare, custom-built Beretta 96X racing
"We have ten minutes left on the clock," his producer whispered through the glass, her eyes shiny with held-back tears. He didn't want a grand, produced farewell
Marcus smiled, looking down at the smoking barrel of his custom machine. They said a .40 caliber was too rowdy for a race gun, but the had just proved them all wrong. "We have ten minutes left on the clock,"
Inspired by the famous alternative rock radio stations named 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.
With a final double-tap on the furthest paper target, he cleared the course and dropped his empty magazine.