Comics of Mystery & the Left-Hand Path
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
From Hel: I Shot Some Guns
I have a gun but I haven't shot it in over a decade. I'm not super old or anything, I got it for Christmas when I was like eleven. Missouri kids get guns for birthdays and shit while in the womb. Mine is a .22 rifle that says Remington on the side and it looks like the type of thing you'd hook your belt around and sling over your shoulder during the apocalypse. I think my rifle looks nice and everything and since the I suspect my neighbor is a King Pin of meth-land, I do sleep a little more soundly with it hidden away in my room. But it also kind of embarrasses me, like owning the rifle makes me more of a dumbass by default. Mostly it makes me feel uncomfortable though. I mean my parents really beat it into me that I would shoot my little brothers nose off if I even looked at it wrong. I was way more interested in pictures of naked girls and heavy metal back then anyways, so the gun rarely even crossed my mind as a whacked out middle school-er.
Going out and shooting that thing has been nagging at me here recently so maybe I'm turning into a shitty redneck and I don't even know it. Future consequences aside, End and Hol grabbed a couple more guns and we set off for a firing range in the sticks. I was looking to lob off a few rounds and feel better about my penis.
It took a half hour of winding country roads before we saw the sign for the Conservation Department range. The woods out there are Winter's Bone for real. No fucking joke this is some serious hillbilly territory; clap-board aluminum hutches burned out from lab fires, gravel lanes chained off with "KEEP OUT" signs, and burly bearded country bros with cut-off overalls and blackened meth-hands. Fucking grim for a place called Pleasant Hope.
The sky was clear, there was a huge day-moon, and it was super cold when we pulled in but the range was busy as shit. As soon as we unloaded the car and started blasting this guy in full on tactical gear and a pencil-stache fell in behind us with a terrifying semi-automatic in his girlish little hands. He starts shifting his rifle around, looking all impatient like he's going to pop if he doesn't rip his pistol out of its thigh holster and smoke some pussy-ass paper targets. With a round of sighs we gave the guy a turn. Then some rowdy hill-dudes showed up and wanted to git sum so we moved to another lane, or "big-ass-mound-of-sand." Here we watched an eight year old hit himself in the forehead with a revolver. Recoil is a real bitch when your wrist is the width of a sharpie. While we were waiting with itchy fingers, I saw the little chump and his Pappy crack off slugs from weapons I thought only existed in the arms of Tanzanian rebels. "You can kill any-thang you want with this'un, boy. Just aim for the head," said Pappy to his elementary aged shootin' buddy.
The Dark Circle ended up going through bullets like pill-junkers on Tramadol. We used the very same box of rounds that came wrapped up with my gun on that magical Missouri Christmas so long ago. Hollow-points Grandpa? What the fuck man? While we stood around holding our sweet dicks and feeling like Clint Eastwood's great nephew, I blinked a lot and found myself wincing at nothing as I braced for the next gunshot to pound my eardrum (Hol was near deaf in one ear the next day which kind of rules). Despite the irritating tic in my eye, I grew a pair after awhile and it was super neat to watch the barrel fire up like a blow torch. By the time we packed it in the sun was dying a cold death, the dollar store jack'O lantern pail we brought a long was good and fucked up with lots of tiny bullet holes, and my hands were nearly sex-cramp numb.
Overall I feel half as creepy as Tactical Tyler's mustache and at least twice as psyched on the world of firearms as that little kid with .9 mm welted across his face.
- From Hel
Going out and shooting that thing has been nagging at me here recently so maybe I'm turning into a shitty redneck and I don't even know it. Future consequences aside, End and Hol grabbed a couple more guns and we set off for a firing range in the sticks. I was looking to lob off a few rounds and feel better about my penis.
It took a half hour of winding country roads before we saw the sign for the Conservation Department range. The woods out there are Winter's Bone for real. No fucking joke this is some serious hillbilly territory; clap-board aluminum hutches burned out from lab fires, gravel lanes chained off with "KEEP OUT" signs, and burly bearded country bros with cut-off overalls and blackened meth-hands. Fucking grim for a place called Pleasant Hope.
The sky was clear, there was a huge day-moon, and it was super cold when we pulled in but the range was busy as shit. As soon as we unloaded the car and started blasting this guy in full on tactical gear and a pencil-stache fell in behind us with a terrifying semi-automatic in his girlish little hands. He starts shifting his rifle around, looking all impatient like he's going to pop if he doesn't rip his pistol out of its thigh holster and smoke some pussy-ass paper targets. With a round of sighs we gave the guy a turn. Then some rowdy hill-dudes showed up and wanted to git sum so we moved to another lane, or "big-ass-mound-of-sand." Here we watched an eight year old hit himself in the forehead with a revolver. Recoil is a real bitch when your wrist is the width of a sharpie. While we were waiting with itchy fingers, I saw the little chump and his Pappy crack off slugs from weapons I thought only existed in the arms of Tanzanian rebels. "You can kill any-thang you want with this'un, boy. Just aim for the head," said Pappy to his elementary aged shootin' buddy.
The Dark Circle ended up going through bullets like pill-junkers on Tramadol. We used the very same box of rounds that came wrapped up with my gun on that magical Missouri Christmas so long ago. Hollow-points Grandpa? What the fuck man? While we stood around holding our sweet dicks and feeling like Clint Eastwood's great nephew, I blinked a lot and found myself wincing at nothing as I braced for the next gunshot to pound my eardrum (Hol was near deaf in one ear the next day which kind of rules). Despite the irritating tic in my eye, I grew a pair after awhile and it was super neat to watch the barrel fire up like a blow torch. By the time we packed it in the sun was dying a cold death, the dollar store jack'O lantern pail we brought a long was good and fucked up with lots of tiny bullet holes, and my hands were nearly sex-cramp numb.
Overall I feel half as creepy as Tactical Tyler's mustache and at least twice as psyched on the world of firearms as that little kid with .9 mm welted across his face.
- From Hel
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