Everything makes sense once he pulls it out and aims it at Chad Billings. The reason he acted so oddly on the deck was because he couldn’t believe the wrestlers didn’t find the gun when they took his clothes, too caught up in their own prank to notice. Now I understand why Tank so willingly swallowed his pride and walked across the lawn to get his pants. I mean, the last thing he wanted was Chad Billings getting his hands on the gun.

The only problem now is that Tank has snapped, and I have a feeling he might actually shoot Billings because of the comment about his mom. Jesus. Our first night out in what seems like forever is turning into a nightmare, and I have a feeling it’s about to get worse.

Call it ’roid rage or whatever, but the fact is that right now Tank Foster looks like a deranged psycho with a total chemical imbalance, standing there wearing only jeans, waving the gun back and forth over the wrestling team. A wet spot emerges on the front of Chad Billings’s khaki shorts, and I watch it spread until it’s the size of a mini-Frisbee.

“Hey, I’m sorry, Foster,” Billings pleads. “Jesus, it’s just a prank. We want you as captain, man!” He points at the gun. “That thing loaded?”

Tank says, “You want to find out? How about I stick it in your mouth and make you pull the trigger? Ever suck on a gun barrel, Billings? My dad tells me they used to mess with captured Iraqis that way in the Gulf War, stick it down their throats and make them squeeze the trigger.”

I watch Billings’s Adams apple bob as he swallows. He says, “Christ, you’re crazier than I thought.”

Tank extends his arm until it locks out. Twelve inches of air separate the gun from Chad Billings’s face.

“Tank,” I say, moving closer to him. “It’s over. Just put it down, man. He apologized.”

Billings starts to cry. “Yeah, man. Jesus Christ, I’m sorry, Foster. Please don’t shoot me.”

Tank doesn’t answer, cocks his head from left to right, eyes on Billings. I’m convinced I’m about to witness a homicide, and judging from the looks of the other nine guys, they must feel the same way. They remind me of electrocuted ghosts, shocked and white.

From the pool deck, Mandy Frack yells, “That thing’s a toy. Kick his ass, Chad.”

Bad move, Mandy.

Tank lowers his arm across the front of his body, making a large U shape as he raises the gun toward the pool and steadies it on Mandy Frack. A yellowish-orange flash of light explodes from the end of the gun’s short barrel, followed by a loud cracking sound that reminds me of one of the M80 firecrackers Justin blows up in the backyard every now and then when he’s drunk.