A Bit of a Drama

Most town pubs have at least one. You know, the slightly odd-looking bloke, always sitting alone, taking his time to drink his beer, cocking an ear to the regulars' conversations, but never included in them. Any drinker who allows himself to be trapped will have to endure mind-numbing tedium as Mr. Odd relates the many infamies (often inolving a divorce or the police) that have been visited on him.
He had recently become a regular in the Black Dog, a run-down boozer with no pretensions to be anything else. Oddly, he had sat for half an hour on the bus from his home to get in for his 11 a.m. pint. Someone was unwise enough to sit near him and in no time he was getting his ear bent. The barman saw Mr. Odd pick his holdall up from the floor and open it for his new friend to look inside. On top of the contents was a pistol.
The barman slipped out the back and dialled 999. The armed police were some way off so two plain clothes coppers arrived quickly, bought drinks, and kept a wary eye on the two drinkers. After about 25 minutes a policeman's mobile rang, and he spoke a few words. Next moment the pub's double doors burst open and the heavies crashed in screaming at both men to get on the floor. They were quickly handcuffed, having had a close up view of the nasty end of a Heckler and Koch MP5. It was a smoothly professional operation and the next morning we heard the whole story when our loner appeared in custody charged with possession of an imitation firearm with intent to do something or other. His unfortunate companion had been released without charge. Mr. Odd went off to the Crown Court, so I never did find out the rest of the story, but my hunch was that he was more sad than bad. He was lucky not to have been shot.