Post by Enrico Vivenzia on Apr 28, 2017 13:52:36 GMT
"My mother taught me how to use a gun. Other kids had weekend holidays to PartyLand, topped off with being molested by stuffed mascots, goofy hats, and overpriced icecream. I got the weight of iron, the burn of shell brass, and the sting in my ears from gunfire through ear mufflers that should had been replaced years ago. I remember her scolding me, a light tap to the back of my head in which I would still let the gun go off just to remind her that hitting me was a bad idea. She would tell me I take too long to line up the shot, that trying to hit bulls-eyes only mattered a sporting events, and that it doesn't matter where you put the bullet, the bastard goes down.
I tried to joke that she goes down more than they would ever do. I also found out my mother was unusually brave to smack the head of a child who head a loaded gun, lots of ammo, and not bad aim.
But this was fine. The other kids could keep their googly eyed dogs, fuzzy noses and twenty dollar soft drinks. Though the refection of safety glasses, far too big even for a brat like myself, I found her smile. And no joker in a prison of an animal suit could make hers more genuine."
---
The shooting range was usually quiet. Quiet, as far as firearm discharge was concerned, the distinctive pop of gunfire still rattled off of concrete walls, accompanied by the rip of paper targets. Mannequin assailants down range shuddered with each impact of purposeful shot, threatening to fall from their permanent poses of shock. The range was certifiably not empty, still filled with sharpshooters and on lookers, all intending to unleash brass punishment across the cheaply drawn bulls-eyes so far down the lane they blurred into black and white blobs.
No, it was unusually quiet because in spite of all that were present, everyone, save for one gunman, was quiet. Everyone, save for this lone bloke stared in disbelief, watching shot after shot lay center at the end of a target. And even less had dared to sing, a chorus in a baritone cord, over the rhythmic pop of gunfire, where even the clap of shell casing to the ground almost accented the melody.
♪"Let the headlines wait.
Armies hesitate"♪
More shots, reload, the slide of the Browning 1911 slid back into place and Enrico Vivenzia took aim once more.
♪"I can deal with fate.
But not the little things"!♫
Six more shots in measured succession. They landed firmly into the paper target, knocking the sheet back almost as authentic as a real assailant.
♫“And it all comes down to yoooooouuuu!”♫
It was only then that Enrico had enough sense to catch the audience in hisr periphery, that the expressions coated in amusement, awe, and a few appropriately annoyed brought him aware to the commotion he caused. And he answered in his typical fashion...
“If ya'll know the words, sing along.”
I tried to joke that she goes down more than they would ever do. I also found out my mother was unusually brave to smack the head of a child who head a loaded gun, lots of ammo, and not bad aim.
But this was fine. The other kids could keep their googly eyed dogs, fuzzy noses and twenty dollar soft drinks. Though the refection of safety glasses, far too big even for a brat like myself, I found her smile. And no joker in a prison of an animal suit could make hers more genuine."
---
The shooting range was usually quiet. Quiet, as far as firearm discharge was concerned, the distinctive pop of gunfire still rattled off of concrete walls, accompanied by the rip of paper targets. Mannequin assailants down range shuddered with each impact of purposeful shot, threatening to fall from their permanent poses of shock. The range was certifiably not empty, still filled with sharpshooters and on lookers, all intending to unleash brass punishment across the cheaply drawn bulls-eyes so far down the lane they blurred into black and white blobs.
No, it was unusually quiet because in spite of all that were present, everyone, save for one gunman, was quiet. Everyone, save for this lone bloke stared in disbelief, watching shot after shot lay center at the end of a target. And even less had dared to sing, a chorus in a baritone cord, over the rhythmic pop of gunfire, where even the clap of shell casing to the ground almost accented the melody.
♪"Let the headlines wait.
Armies hesitate"♪
More shots, reload, the slide of the Browning 1911 slid back into place and Enrico Vivenzia took aim once more.
♪"I can deal with fate.
But not the little things"!♫
Six more shots in measured succession. They landed firmly into the paper target, knocking the sheet back almost as authentic as a real assailant.
♫“And it all comes down to yoooooouuuu!”♫
It was only then that Enrico had enough sense to catch the audience in hisr periphery, that the expressions coated in amusement, awe, and a few appropriately annoyed brought him aware to the commotion he caused. And he answered in his typical fashion...
“If ya'll know the words, sing along.”
♠
