When you're in Japan, getting your hands on a gun as a civilian is near impossible.
Here, firearms are locked down tighter than a nun's cunt.
This ain't Miami, where Tony could jack a piece off some coked-up Colombian in an alley and call it a Tuesday.
But this isn't about some random Japanese civvie. This is Tony fucking Montana.
And Tony had connections. Through that rich chick Saya Takagi, whose daddy just happened to be a big-time Don with more clout than a Yakuza boss, Tony got hooked up fast. It didn't take long to track down an arms dealer.
But before that? He made a little stop. He didn't forget about Hisashi.
Tony pried open that loser's locker and helped himself to a wad of yen, calling it compensation for emotional damages.
Maybe just because fuck Hisashi.
Either way, it felt good.
The motherfucker owed him anyway.
With a combination of his own stash and the cash he stole, he had more than enough to treat himself to something sleek, deadly, and compact.
A pistol perfect for killing and if he was being honest, he had half a mind to test it out by putting a bullet or two through Shido's knees.
Bastard needed a reminder not to touch what wasn't his.
And now, here he was.
The place looked like a garage on the outside, but inside? It reeked of heat, guns, ammo, attitude.
A bald, dark-skinned guy behind the counter furrowed his brow as Tony swaggered in, the kind of walk that said I own this fucking room.
"The new guy, huh?" the man muttered, giving Tony a quick up-and-down.
"You the guy?" Tony asked, already knowing the answer.
"Depends," the dealer replied coolly, arms crossed. "You got the money?"
Tony smirked, pulling out the wad of bills and slapping it onto the counter. "Money talks, hermano. But I do the killin'. So don't waste my time."
The dealer snorted. "Alright, tough guy. What you lookin' for? Glock? Beretta? You don't strike me as someone who can afford either."
The price of a Glock or a Beretta in Japan was fucking ridiculous, basically overkill compared to Miami, where you could either snatch one for free in the middle of some gang war, or just buy one dirt cheap off the street.
Back in his day? Shit, it only cost him around 300 to 500 bucks, tops.
According to Takashi's pathetic memories, if he tried to buy that same shit here, it'd run him anywhere between 900,000 to 1.2 million yen.
Converted to dollars, that's like six to eight fucking grand. For a single gun. On the black market, no less.
No wonder that bald bastard thought he couldn't afford it.
Hmph. If this were Miami? He could've bought ten just for the hell of it.
Unlike Takashi, some broke-ass high school kid living off rice balls and teenage hormones, he was Tony fucking Montana.
The King of Cocaine. And you're telling him he can't afford a goddamn handgun? Please. He could've wiped his ass with that price tag.
Tony leaned forward, his eyes sharp and voice low. "I don't need some fancy-shit overpriced toy. I need a piece that fits in my waistband, doesn't bulge under my shirt, and still drops a motherfucker when I pull the trigger. That simple enough for you?"
The arms dealer rolled his eyes but nodded. "Alright, alright. I get it. You're not here to play. You want a compact killer. What's the plan, huh? Gonna shoot some high school bullies? Or just flex in front of your bitch?"
Tony's eyes darkened instantly.
He slammed both palms on the counter so hard it rattled the glass.
"Listen here, motherfucker. You think I'm some punk playing gangster dress-up? You think I came here to wave a piece around and scare kids? Nah. I need something real. Something that says 'Fuck you' in .380 or 9 mil. Got it?"
The dealer backed off a bit, hands raised, chuckling. "Okay, okay, amigo. No need to get your dick in a twist. I hear you."
He turned and popped open a black case behind the counter, pulling out three compact pistols, laying them down with the care of a man showing off his girls.
"Now, let me introduce you to my babies."
He pointed at the Kel-Tec P-11 sitting on the table: "9 mil. Light, ugly, kicks like a drunk mule. But it works."
Next, he picked up the Makarov PM, weighing it in his palm: "Russian iron. 9x18. Heavy but reliable. Can drop a guy if you hit the right spot."
Then his eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the SIG Sauer P232. There was a flicker of approval: ".380 ACP. Sleek, sexy, but pricey. Girls love it. So do guys who plan to survive the night."
"How 'bout it, amigo?" the arms dealer asked, grinning with crooked teeth. "Which big guy you want to dance with?"
Tony reached out and grabbed the Makarov, feeling its weight.
He scowled. "This shit's too heavy. And fucking ugly."
"So are corpses. But they stay down," the dealer replied coolly.
Tony scoffed and looked over at the Kel-Tec like it had personally insulted him. "And this? This plastic piece of shit looks like it came out of a cereal box. You really sell this garbage?"
"It ain't pretty, but it'll ruin somebody's morning real bad," the dealer said with a shrug.
Tony dropped both guns back on the table without ceremony.
Then his eyes lit up as he picked up the SIG, fingers running over the smooth lines of the steel like he was touching something sacred. "This one speaks my language. I want it. It's got taste, amigo."
"And a price tag to match," the dealer said, eyeing him from head to toe. "You sure you're not dreaming too high, little man?"
Tony flipped open his wallet and counted what was left, laying the bills out without a flinch. "This is what I got. You want it or not?"
The dealer scratched his chin, then smirked. "Tell you what. You give me everything, every last damn yen and I'll throw in a full mag and a pocket holster. No questions."
Tony smirked and offered his hand. "You got yourself a deal, amigo."
The dealer took the cash. Tony took the SIG and ran his fingers along the cold metal like he'd just reunited with a long-lost lover.
"Small, sexy, quiet, deadly... I fuckin' love it."
The arms dealer raised an eyebrow, amused. "Got a target already, huh?"
Tony just shrugged, eyes unreadable. "Maybe…"
Then he turned on his heel and walked off without another word. He didn't linger, didn't look back.
And the arms dealer? He just kept humming a lazy tune, waiting for the next bastard to come walking into his little corner of hell.