The Gunman Who Shot Me

The Gunman Who Shot Me

A 16-mile backup greets Southern California motorists returning from Las Vegas after Sunday’s deadly mass shooting. It was the worst mass shooting since 1968.

Police officer Jason Van Dyke is walking on North Main Street in Las Vegas, Nevada, on Nov. 2, 2017. Photo: Mike Schefter


Michael L.R. Christopher

The following story is a work of fiction, but you are encouraged to read about the author’s personal experience during the shooting at a music festival in Las Vegas on Sunday.

Dear Readers:

On Sunday, I was working an early shift at a hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada, when a man stormed into the lobby screaming that he wanted to start a “Christian revolution.” He said he was going to take over a hotel and force all Muslims to convert.

I didn’t believe in Jesus, and I’d recently learned that Muslims were banned from the hotel’s property.

The guy had a gun, but I didn’t think he’d need it. I saw the fear in his eyes as he pointed the gun at me and then looked at me intently, as if he was trying to memorize where I lived and to be sure that I had a clear shot. He’d never met anyone from the hotel before.

I kept my eyes on him and noticed he’d forgotten his bag. I asked him if he needed the bag, and he said no. I then realized that this was a regular gun-carrying tourist, who didn’t expect to see me in the lobby with a gun on me. I asked him if he knew where I lived, and he said he had. He was in town for a week, visiting his girlfriend in San Jose.

I told him he should probably drive to where I lived because I was working the early shift and I’d probably only be there for a few minutes. He said no, he had a car, could he take me the rest of the way there?

I said sure, but there’s no point in taking me to my house.

He told me to meet someone at a bar at the corner, and I went there with him. We got into the car

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