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Shoot First, Live Free PT5 THE FINALLY (May contain offensive material.) (1 Viewer)

doktorcrash

Senior Member
THE HUNT

Did you ever see what a .44 Magnum pistol will do to a woman’s face? I mean, it’ll fuckin’ destroy it just blow it right apart. That’s what it can do to her face. Now, did you ever see what it can do to a woman’s pussy? That you should see.
--Taxi Driver

Maybe I learned to respect guns the night when, as a lonely, dope-seeking California teenager, I scored a handful of joints downtown. Several blocks from where I copped, as I dizzily drifted through a grimy sector near the Greyhound station, some dude accosted me with the words, “I know you got the weed.” I offered to smoke some with him, so we headed down an alley to fire it up. When I cupped my hands to light a joint, he a chrome-plated revolver in my guts and demanded my money, all seven bucks of it. I looked down at the gun as it twinkled in the early summer twilight. He took my cash and bolted, and I walked ten miles home.
As a wise man once said, “Never again.” Cross me—just once ---and you become a target. I don’t care if it’s a riot, an earthquake, or just some jerk off with an attitude—nobody’s going to clown me again.
Storm clouds fill up the sky. The nightly sound of shotgun blasts is as familiar as my alarm clock’s numb buzz. Meat wagons roll through the streets. Police chopper lights peer into my window. Fat, red-eyed schizophrenics are barking outside, saying they’re going to kill me. I’m in too fucking deep. I want that cold steel in my hands. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to buy a gun.
I can’t afford to make a mistake, so I study their anatomy like a medical student. I mull over their calibers, barrel lengths, scopes, clips, stocks, sights, triggers, springs, safety levers, ejectors, and grips. I balance power against accuracy, close combat utility versus sniping potential. I learn about the glamour guns, those whose names read like a digital poetry: the TEC-9, 30.06, .357 Magnum, and M-16. I acquaint myself with bullets: flat nosed bullets, fragmenting bullets, and armor-piercing “cop-killer” bullets. A bullet must quickly flatten the enemy. It must induce hydrostatic shock and maximize tissue damage. A bullet should expand properly in order to create a giant wound channel. Optimum blood loss is the goal.
Yessiree, bullets can be might fetching. But because of its size, the shotgun shell is able to contain more bewitching ammo than standard rifle or pistol casings. Shotgun shells can hold rounds such as the coquettish “Turbo-Grabber,” whose hollow point slug is rimmed with tiny teeth, transforming the discharge into a flying buzz saw. “Flechette” cartridges are loaded with twenty steel darts. The “Flamethrower,” according to one catalog’s enthusiastic description, “expels a load of exotic, fast burning, high temperature metals three-hundred feet down range, totally engulfing your target in a momentary four-thousand degree fireball!!” My sentiments lean toward the “Strung Buck,” a shell which houses two huge lead balls joined by six inch wire strands. Upon impact, the Strung Buck tears right through a victim, flaying his chest into beef jerky.
But enough research. “A GREAT WAY TO RELIEVE STRESS!” trumpets the Yellow Pages ad for a downtown pistol range, and I’m a big ball of twine all knotted in tension. Jenny’s nervy, too, so we hop in our jalopy and head for Skid Row. As we walk into the range, we’re faced with about nine hundred Koreans and a like number of firearms. I rent a Glock 19, possibly the sexiest handgun ever made, with a design as winning as a ’65 Mustang. It’s lightweight and partially cast in space age plastic, rendering it a dull, rubbery black. My paper target depicts a rodent cheeked, suit wearing assailant who resembles a Man from U.N.C.L.E. villain. Clad in protective earmuffs and goggles, I squeeze out the first cap. I’m startled at how fucking LOUD it is, like a mallet socking me in the ribs, No electric guitar ever spoke the heavy-metal thunder that this little gun does. One shot quickly follows the next until there are none. As I collect my used brass, pay the bill, and walk outside, it dawns on me that I’m HAPPY, maybe happier than I’ve been crying for hours. I’ve taken an elevator ride up to the lair of the gods. I have become Shiva, destroyer of worlds.
Clutching the power over life and death in you hand is more addictive than any skin-popped opiate. I’m jonesing to shoot again, and soon. We devise a perfect double date with another couple—dinner, the gunplay. I swallow my meal as quickly as possible and corral everyone into the car so we all can zoom to the range. My hand is sore after having been crushed under a hydraulic paper trimmer, so I choose a .22 Luger, which looks like a German spy gun and has minimal recoil. I expend a hundred rounds in the blink of an eye. As the four of us leave, the sound of parking lot gravel crunching under our feet, we all feel washed in the River Jordon. Driving away on a foam-rubber cloud, I fantasize about how it would feel to pump lead into more “human” targets—say, honeydew melons or balloons filled with Jell-O. I wonder what it would be like to get my claws on a shotgun, to bang up my shoulder until it’s black-and-blue. Shit, how about and antiaircraft gun? A Cannon? Sniffing my fingers, I realize that the smell of gunpowder would make fantastic cologne. My cock’s gonna be brick hard tonight.
My only grievance was with the target—too impersonal, like a crash-test dummy. So I use a stat camera to blow up some photos of Jenny’s hemorrhoidal father and my bloodsucking Ex – to poster size. Now we’re really horny to go shooting.
As I clip Jenny’s lumpy, knish-shaped dad to the target holder and send him sailing downrange, a hundred feathers tickle my loins. I feel hopeful. Since Jenny had been somewhat gun-shy up to this point, I start her on a piddling old Smith & Wesson .22, which jams more often than it fires. When she has no trouble with the .22, I hand her the powerful Glock 17, which holds nineteen 9mm bullets. I begin shouting some of her dad’s more irksome lines into her ear: “You’re ugly! ...I wish you had died instead of your brother! …You’ll never get married, because nobody wants you!” Lurching forward, her legs spread and teeth gnashing, Jenny empties the clip. She’s not a gun virgin anymore.
“Who’s that person?” asks a man peeping out form the stall to our left, pointing to the now-battered target of Jenny’s pop. Our interrogator looks like a Yale grad—neatly cropped blond hair, granny glasses, grey sweat shirt.
“That’s my father,” Jenny proudly replies.
I lift up the target of my smiling mere.
“And this is my Ex,” I say, beaming.
“Do they know about this?” Mr. Prep School asks uneasily.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “We haven’t spoken to them for years.” His skinny lips crinkle into a gawky smile and he burrows back into his stall’s sanctuary.
KER_PLOW! The blood pressure seeps out of us with each pull of the trigger, each deadly volley hurled at out progenitors. How dare they steal our formative years away from us? Well, we’ve got them cornered, and they can’t get away now. They invested a lot of hatred in us, and now its payback time.
“It was such a physical release, “Jenny confides to me as we head out. “It was wonderful.” It seems like it took us for hours to get to the gun range and about six minutes to return home. We taped the sounds of gunfire. We’ll listen to the tape on insomniac nights, certain it will lull us to sleep.
We rent a semiautomatic AK-47 on our next shooting jaunt, and the Soviet-designed rifle has a rib-rattling pow-pow report with a healthy bluish flame streaming from the muzzle. Wearing a black-velvet overcoat, Jenny grips the AK like a gun moll, blowing holes in her father’s face. A warm feeling rolls over my scrotum.
We’ll hit the same range one more time, accompanied by three other people, all of us trying each other’s guns in the true communal spirit, all of us bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. But somehow the rent-a-gun racket leaves me feeling empty. I realize that the string of one-night stands with unfamiliar firearms can’t go on forever. I don’t want to be known as an aging gun slut. I must choose one gun and make a commitment to it.

THE GUN

This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. My rifle, without me, it is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy; for he is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will…My rifle and myself know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, not the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit… My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother; I will learn its weaknesses, its strength’s, its parts, its accessories, its sights, and its barrel. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage. I will keep my rifle clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will…Before God I swear this creed. My rifle and I are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life. So be it until there is no enemy, but Peace!
---The Creed of the United States Marines

Do you believe in love at first sight? It only happened once before, the night I first dove into Jenny’s big brown eyes. And here comes that sticky feeling again, surging through my limbs, making my knees weak. It just looks so seductive, mounted there on the wall behind the counter, silently imploring me to take it home. Resplendent black steel, shiny black plastic. Hey, good lookin’…….
It’s the devastating Mossberg 500 twelve-gauge shotgun, and I’m in love. It’s so baleful, diabolical, and pitiless; I think I’d follow it around the world if it asked me. This sweetheart’s equipped with a custom sight, front and rear pistol grips, and side clips which hold six shells in addition to the seven which fit in the magazine. The Mossberg’s tooled for destruction. Its infernal belch will knock down anything in its path. Police agencies call it he “riot pump” and use it to disperse crowds. It’s possibly the most brutal close-combat weapon you can buy legally.
So of course we buy it, registering it in Jenny’s name due to my assault records. Forced by Connecticut law to wait fifteen days before we can take it home, I shoot some tender Polaroid’s of our new baby and bid it adieu. Lovesick, we try to pick a name for it as we stare at the pictures. We consider The Peacemaker, The Pacifier, Mommy Dearest, The Therapist, and Mr. Nice Guy, rejecting them all. We decide to call it The Reverend.
And so it came to pass, after fifteen days and fifteen nights of rain, that The Reverend spewed forth hellfire, an unholy issuance which splitteth the sky. Its heathen hightening cutteth straight through the raindrops, drilleth a tunnel through the fog, hammereth some indeterminate downrange mud. There are four of us weathering the antediluvian downpour, and our unprotected ears endure the Reverend’s full bloody roar.
The rain taps like a machine gun on the skimpy canopy slung over our heads. This is the only legal shotgun range in town, perched on soggily bucolic foothills in the county’s northern fringes. It has gunfolkish touches such as a sign which reads, DANGER: RATTLESNAKE AREA and a gun instructor whose name – I shit you not – Kent Turnipseed. The range is a mucky beige pond after two straight weeks of rain, a biblical-looking man in a 4x4 truck – presumably Mr. Turnipseed – allows us to shoot when we tell; him it’s a new gun. I guess he remembers being young.
With little success, we hurl clumps of lead at the steel pigs and ducks which taunt us fifty yards away. We’re soon joined by three good-ol’-boy types, men whose appearance conjures dioramas of coal stoves and corncob pipes. They coo over The Reverend as if it’s Rosemary’s Baby. Within a minute, they’re laying down raps about the evil metropolis New York and “niggers” – how not all black people are niggers, how some white people are. Their apparent leader is a short, beflanneled gent. With a lit, unfiltered cigarette jutting defiantly form his yap like an erection; he has the unaffected psycho aura of a lifetime military man. He tosses an empty plastic ammo tray into the water and starts dinging it with a .40-caliber Glock pistol. His aim is dead-on, and the red tray bobs up and down with each hit. He says he’s taught target-shooting for thirty-seven years and has won seventeen national championships. Meanwhile, my shots zoom up and away like a jet plane, touching nothing. With gunfolkly compassion, he offers me a quick lesson. He holds The Reverend like he invented it and shows how I should plant my elbow in my waist while aiming with my index finger. After a few rounds, I’m sinking the ammo tray with ease. He tells me I’m shooting better than people he’s been teaching for five years.
I smile. “They don’t have my anger, boss.”

THE KILL

They will to kill, the complete lack of sympathy and compassion, and no hesitation in killing the subject, is paramount. You must take his life as detachedly as you might swat a fly or crush an ant….. [One} method [of] silencing the report…is to jam the muzzle up his rectal orifice and fire the weapon. Apart from being virtually silent, the cause of death is not immediately apparent…..
----Kill Without Joy!: The Complete How to Kill Book

Joey grew up in my neighborhood. Joey owned a shotgun. While demonstrating it to a friend, Joey shot himself in the face. He survived, forced to live out a degrading Elephant Man existence. He rarely ventured outside. He wore sunglasses when he did, and people whispered to each other whenever Joey went.
Piss me off, and Joey will look like Fabio compared to you. I’ll peel your face open like a banana. I’ll pepper your torso with fistfuls of cruel pellets. You can run if you want, but I’m looking into your crystal ball, and GUNS, GUNS, GUNS, are in your future.
Tortured puppies became nasty dogs. You cocksuckers thought it was all a joke, right? Heh, heh—POW! When some scumbag comes creeping into my apartment looking to lift my shit for some crack money, I’ll blast his ass out into the hallway. Fuck, if someone honks too loud outside, I’ll turn his brains into tofu. Some asshole knocks on our door trying to sell the N.Y. Times, BLAM! Front-page news. Lousy service at a restaurant? BOOM! Human marinara. I’ll mow’em down like ragweed, spray’em like roaches, dust’em like a bookcase. I can’t wait to see the life seep out of someone’s body like air form a tire. I laugh at my enemies’ bulging eyes as I slip the shotgun barrel into their mouths. I relish the crimson parade of my foes being carted away in body bags. I cuddle used shotgun shells like they’re new born kittens. I’ll shower with my gun. I’ll go to the video store fully armed. I’ll cruise supermarket aisles with The Reverend in one hand, a box of Cheerios in the other. I scatter lead like stars into the glittering Connecticut night.
Slowly…insanely…I become one of the gunfolk.
 
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