Hash homocide

Rock and his fellow Hash House Harrier buddies drank from cans of Milwaukee's Best Light on his gravel driveway.
John Kohn sat down in the back seat of Rock's twenty-year-old Chevy Cavalier and began to dig through empty beer and soda pop cans and newspapers and fast-food containers on the floorboard for a place to put his feet. He picked up a tattered McDonald's bag. "Holy shit," he said as he turned his head from the bag. "How long has this been back here? It fucking reeks, man."
Everyone laughed.
Rock watched John Good, clearly the drunkest of his guests, climb from the front seat and run into his backyard, where Greg Pipe stood with his back toward them as he peed in the grass. Rock suddenly realized Good had a pistol in hand, the same gun Rock thought he had returned to his father years before. Apparently it had been in his car. Rock knew it had a hairpin trigger, and started to warn Good, but it was too late. Good had already tossed the gun in the air. It was nearly certain to fire when it landed, which it did no more than a foot behind Pipe, whose back immediately arched away from the gunshot. He collapsed to the ground.
Rock thought to call for an ambulance, but hesitated. Pipe was shot. He looked dead, and Rock knew big trouble had arrived.