Jason saw all sorts of things during his stint as an armored truck driver. One time, on one of his first few runs, actually, he was entrusted with the task of transporting a yapping poodle from Santa Monica to Long Beach. The deliveree, recently divorced and dripping white wine through her pores, had taken Jason by the shoulder and whispered this: You will understand when you have one of your own.
 Weeks would pass before he saw anything interesting again. In truth, the job primarily consisted of moving high quantities of money from one bank to another. This bored Jason. This was not what Jason had signed up to see.
Other occasions would prove more exciting. Once, while delivering some diamonds from LAX to a jeweler downtown, Jason came under fire. Several men had thought it a good idea to follow his truck and attempt to retrieve its contents. One of these men, the true jokester of the merry gang, had thought it an even better idea to perch himself out of the open sunroof with an automatic weapon and begin the robbery preemtively. Jason's truck took six bullets in total, a disappointing count all said and done.  
 For security reasons, drivers are not told in advance what it is they will be carrying. This prevents criminals from forcing employees to tell them.  Ordinarily, such a thing is easy to deduce, anyway. A bank to bank transfer is almost always cash. Port to home might be artwork, or a valuable foreign trinket. Occasionally there are outliers, but these are few and far between.
 This one was an outlier.
 This one was from LA Air Force Base to Woods Asylum.
 It was an absolute trump, a package that defied any sort of guesswork or mental probing. What the hell had to be moved from a military base to an insane asylum with absolutely no stops in between? What could possibly command such importance? Jason's mind raced through the possibilities as he sat in the parking lot at the end of his run, his eyes transfixed on the unremarkable building that lay in front of him. The asylum was brick and decadent. It reeked of gloom.
 Jason knew what he was going to do before he did it, but he took quite a while in doing it, anyway. He fiddled with the radio, ran fingers through his hair. He played games on his phone. He organized his glove box and he adjusted all of his mirrors so they were just right. The package lingered like a splinter in the back of his mind. Splinters will work themselves out, given enough time, but the graduality of nature lacks the satisfaction reaped from deliberate intervention. 

Jason removed his seat belt and stepped out of the armored truck brandishing a ring of keys. He locked the door behind him and walked over to the back of the truck, sticking a key in each of the slots on the handles of the double doors. He turned the keys simultaneously, a trick he had only mastered after a year on the job, and threw the doors open. Light spilled in from outside, revealing only a small duffel bag in the large expanse of the storage compartment. Jason grabbed the duffel bag and unzipped it, then tossed it aside as he pulled out a box and beheld it in his hands. It was a foot across and six inches wide. On the face of the box, etched in military-font letters, was this: THE SCARY GUN.