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open palm, just over his head. “This seems like the worst kind of idea,” said Buster, but Joseph reassured him. “I wouldn’t do it if I couldn’t do it,” he told Buster. Arden tore open a new bag of potatoes and handed one to Joseph, who began to delicately force the vegetable down the sharpened barrel, leaving behind a sheared-off portion of potato. “See,” said Joseph, “we’ve got a little ball of ammunition in there now.” He turned on the gas, filled the chamber with the correct amount, and then took aim through the scope. When the trigger was pulled, Buster saw only the flare of ignited gas that trailed the potato. Once he heard the sound of aluminum compacting, he noticed Kenny, still in full possession of his hand, picking the demolished beer can off the ground and holding it up for the rest of them to see. “That was incredible,” Buster said, punching Joseph’s shoulder. “Not bad, huh?” said Joseph, who seemed embarrassed or excited or both.
    “Me next,” said Arden, who grabbed one of the last full cans of beer and started jogging out to where Kenny was standing. Arden placed the can on top of his head, William Tell–style, and waited for Joseph to aim and fire. “Should we take bets?” asked David, but the odds seemed so lopsided that they didn’t feel it would be worth the trouble. “No point putting it off any longer,” Joseph said, and then fired the potato gun. And missed. “C’mon, now,” yelled Arden, “that was off by a mile.” Kenny sidled up to Buster, holding the beer can that Joseph had obliterated with the potato gun. The can looked like a piece of shrapnel pulled from an unlucky body, jagged edges and splattered with warm pieces of potato. The webbing between Kenny’s thumb and forefinger was bleeding, but he did not seem to care. “I wish we had a video camera,” he said. “These are the kind of things you want to remember.”
    Joseph reloaded and missed again. And again. “I guess I’m trying to aim a little high because I’m afraid that I’m going to shoot him in the face,” he said. “You should ignore that fear,” said Kenny, who began to urinate in full view of everyone. Joseph once again shoved a potato down the barrel of the gun, his face now serious and pale. The temperature seemed to have dropped twenty degrees in the last half hour. Joseph took an extraordinarily long time to sight the target through the scope and then fired, the concussive sound reverberating in the cold air, a sound that Buster thought he would never grow tired of hearing. The can atop Arden’s head exploded in a mushroom cloud of beer, sending the target almost twenty yards beyond Arden, who was soaking wet and covered in chunks of potato. He walked back to the other men, his teeth chattering, reeking of beer and French fries. Buster handed him the beer he was drinking and Arden finished it in one gulp. David picked up another beer and offered it to Buster. “Should we keep pushing our luck?” he asked.
    Buster considered the beer and then looked at Joseph. “I don’t know,” Buster said. “It would make for a good article,” Kenny said, “either way.” Though Buster could not reject the truth of this statement, he found that he could not will his legs to move. Joseph took the gun off of his shoulder and offered it to Buster. “You can shoot me, instead,” he said, “that would be a good story too.” Buster began to laugh but he realized that Joseph was serious. “It’s okay,” Joseph said. “I’m pretty sure you can do it.”
    “It’s a rifled barrel,” said Arden, “it’s pretty damn accurate.” It dawned on Buster that they were all spectacularly drunk and yet operating at a fairly high level of awareness. Their judgment was impaired, admittedly, but Buster felt himself believing that there was logic to their actions. Buster assessed the situation. It was a distinct possibility that he would hurt someone, but he could not be hurt; he felt immune to