I never quite believed the stories. To me, it sounded like rubbish some junkie made up. In fact, I never truly believed in the butterfly effect either. In my humble opinion, it sounded too circumstantial, too much like a coincidence, so I full-heartedly rejected the concept of it - that was until I met Dale Fletcher.

As someone who always fancied the upper class but never got to be a part of it, I always sought the opportunity to buy a colossal amount of books, so if I ever got the chance to meet someone wealthy, I could talk about any topic. Of course, my dreams are completely unrealistic - I own a Curiosity Shop down the street next to a bagel place. Perhaps if I was smarter or richer, I could've afforded to get a better education and become a doctor, but coming from a middle-lower class family I was lucky to be able to own a business (even a really small one) at all.

It was the 23rd of December, and I was getting ready to close down for the break and go enjoy a warm dinner and a glass of wine with my wife when a man dressed in a long mud-brown trench coat stumbled in. At first, I was more than hesitant, and greeted him with an uncertain "Hello?". He looked up at me and the first thing I noticed was the ugly scar that stretched from below his right eye down to his upper lip - without he would've been a relatively good-looking fellow. His clouded brown eyes made eye contact with me, and he frowned, his brows scrunched upon his forehead and his lips pressed into a firm line. "Gus George is your name, correct?" he asked me and limped towards the display case. His left arm kept the trench coat tightly wrapped around his body, but I could still see the bloodstain on the right side of his body that seeped through the clothing. "I prefer to be called Agnus by strangers, but that's not the main concern right now," I said, noticing the splattered blood on his pants, "You look hurt, should I call-" he didn't let me finish; "The police? An ambulance? No. They can't help me, only you can - Agnus. Tell me, do you own a Chamelot Delvigne, the French revolver made in 1873? You have a very special type, and I desperately need it." I was immediately taken aback by his statement, "Perhaps I do, but what do you intend to use it for? It's not loaded." It was true. I did own a Chamelot Delvigne, and it was indeed unique - the words Pour l'amour inconditionnel de ma vie, Dale Fletcher were carved into the barrel. "It's my gun, and I plan to destroy it," he answered me as a matter of fact, "I'm Dale Fletcher." My suspicions were shrinking but the same could not be said for my curiosity. I told him to stay there while I disappeared into the depths of my shop. I'm a very organized man, so finding the revolver wasn't difficult. It was stashed in a small wooden (cherry tree) box with beautiful flower carvings behind my collection of 1960s DVDs. I carefully lifted it up - it was truly a work of art, why would he ever want to destroy it? I sighed and returned to the main lobby and placed the box on the glass display, keeping one hand protectively on top of it. The stranger's eyes gleamed with elation, he reached his hand towards it, his blood-smeared fingers slightly trembling, "I'll pay any price, just please give it to me." I reluctantly pulled the box closer to myself, "I don't need your money. Tell me what got you here and I'll give it to you." he looked up at me, my eyes burned into his grisly scar as I refused to make any more eye contact with him. "Fine," he said, "You won't believe me, but I guess it's worth a shot. I suggest we take a seat, this is going to be a long story." The man took a few uneasy steps to the love seat and slumped down. I took out a bottle of Sailor Jerry Rum (spiced), two snifter glasses from underneath the counter, poured some for both of us, and sat down too. Dale Fletcher took a sip of the drink and smirked, "Where should I begin?"