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Nobita dragged his sore self home, arms already turning purple from Gian and Suneo’s latest smackdown. “Why me every time?” he grumbled, booting a stone that bounced into the ditch. The whole playground scrap looped in his brain—Suneo smirking over his slick slingshot, Gian looming like a bad weather front, and Nobita? Down in the mud, mouth full of grit. He crashed into his room, belly-flopped on the mat, and unloaded on Doraemon while crunching leftover crackers. “Man, if I had a gun or something. Just to spook ’em, make ’em think twice.”
Doraemon froze with a half-gone dorayaki, bell tinkling faint. “Gun? Sketchy stuff from back then, but… fine, one go.” He fished out the Real Bullet Blaster from his gut pouch—a shiny plastic popper that screamed kid’s fantasy, trigger gleaming, sights goofy as cartoons. “Toy vibe, but packs live rounds. Shoot smart, kid—stuff bites back.” Nobita’s stare lit up like he’d hit the jackpot. “No kidding! Lemme at it.” He dashed off, pistol stuffed in his pants, pulse racing with that sweet revenge itch.
School next day, break time struck like lightning. Gian pinned him at the swings, knuckles cracking. “Round three, wimp?” Suneo snickered along. Nobita yanked the blaster, thumb on the hammer. “Step off—or boom!” Snap—crack! The shot zipped Gian’s ear, chipping bark off a branch by his nose. Bully locked up, face going ghost, Suneo yelped and ate dirt. “Holy— that’s for real?!” Nobita held his ground, chin high. “Damn straight. Try me next, and it’s not a miss.” Yard emptied quick—whispers flying, grown-ups none the wiser. Winning felt better than fresh-squeezed juice.
News flew. Afternoon, Nobita ruled: swaps for sweets, prime desk spots, Shizuka even flashing smiles. “Brave move, Nobita,” she said, and his face heated worse than the pistol’s heat. Power’s tricky, though. Evening alley run, he pinged a can and clipped the neighbor’s fancy fish pond—koi bobbing dead, geezer storming the fence. “You brat! Those were my charm fish!” Nobita stuttered sorrys, but the harm lingered. Then Gian, ego bruised, jumped him at twilight with a slingshot primed. Nobita shot blind—round bouncing off a pole, smashing Mrs. Tanaka’s doll shelf to bits. Glass showered, yells rang, and boom—the “tough guy” was the bad guy in everyone’s crosshairs.
Doraemon tracked him to the tool shed, gun hugged like a hot coal. “Said it—live ammo ain’t pretend.” Nobita’s cool cracked, salt running. “Wanted some props… not this crap.” Cat let out a breath, snatching the piece for a last beam. “Props hit from inside, not toys. Clean your mess, start with sorrys.” Gut sinking, Nobita owned it: mopping shards with Mrs. Tanaka, restocking pond with the elder, kneeling to Gian over sore fists. “My bad, dude. Got too pumped.” Shockingly, the brute mumbled, “Fine… but don’t.”
End of the week, talk died down—Nobita back to regular Nobita, but backbone firmer from the fallout. No fake firepower; just real bumps and the grind to earn nods. Doraemon tousled his mop. “Yup. Best patch? Dropping the hothead act.” Alley sunset, Nobita dipped his head. Guns? Lame. Sting of a real hit? Gold.
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(Grabbed this from Doraemon’s fourth ep frenzy, kid’s payback popper turning town terror and a gut-punch growth spurt.)
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