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15

10/15/2012

“The revolver is awesome. I can’t decide which one I want though. ” I said as I looked at the weapons laid out before me.

“Get the .45” Drill said, as he idly fumbled with some small weird looking gun with a long barrel and a folding stock that made it just small enough to fit under a sport coat with relative ease.

“Which one’s the .45?” I asked, knowing he was going to give me ‘the look’. We had been doing this for a while, so I had gotten to know ‘the look’ pretty well; it said get your shit together and quit fucking around. I hated ‘the look’.

Drill gave me the look and reached across in front of me, picking up a semi-auto pistol and showing me where it was marked ‘.45 ACP’.

“Tell me again why I want this instead of the revolver? Revolvers are cool…” I knew the reasons why, but I was really still learning the how and why of handguns.

“Last time. Won’t tell you again.” Drill began, his tone making it clear that I had pushed him to the limit. Drill grabbed the revolver, pushing forward the cylinder release  and looking into the empty cylinder. “Smith and Wesson, Model 627 V-Comp. Very nice gun. Eight rounds of .357 magnum. Great man-stopper this cartridge.” Drill closed the cylinder and set the revolver aside, picking up the .45. “This is the Smith and Wesson E series 1911 in .45 ACP. Shorter barrel, slightly less weight a nice rail, because you will need a laser until you become proficient with the weapon.” Drill turned the weapon over in his hand running a finger along the serrations on the slide. “This weapon is an icon among icons. ” He smiled as he handed the gun over to me “Most importantly though you can carry several magazines and reload faster.” Drill returned to the little machine pistol he had been looking at  “More death, faster. Definitely a plus for beginners.”

“What about that?” I asked, pointing at the weapon he was holding.

“This? No. This weapon is for professionals.” Drill held up one of the rounds he had been feeding into the weapons magazine. They looked like bullets for children to me especially compared to the squat, fat cartridges that fed into the 1911 I was holding. “This is Heckler and Koch’s MP7. Not meant for the likes of you.” he smiled as he folded the stock on the little pistol. “PDW’s are meant for ‘operators’. You, you have to look like Joe Average. Same as me, of course, but I’ll be wearing a jacket.”

I snorted indignantly “So the definition of an ‘operator’ is wears a jacket?”

He shook his head and gave me ‘the look’. “No, Shan. The definition of ‘operator’ is has a fucking clue about which end of the gun goes bang and knows when to make that happen.”  Drill began fitting himself with extra magazines for the MP7 “don’t kid yourself, Shan. This is the big time. After today you make the jump. It’s no fucking around–you’re not ‘experimenting with your sexuality’ like it’s college–okay? You can’t just get back on the vag train after this like nothing ever happened. Once you take a life, your life is changed.”

“Who says . . . ” I began to protest but Drill cut me off.

“I say. You go with me on this and you will kill someone or you will die. It’s really that simple. Killer instinct isn’t something you either have or don’t, it’s something you use or don’t.”

I relented and laid the revolver down, holding my hand out for the smaller semi-auto pistol. Drill was right about one thing at least–if I went through with his plan–there would be no turning back.

I had done things to save my life when Drill pulled me out of the county lockup where I was being held on fictitious charges–charges that were in reality the result of his actions–while the police or whoever concocted enough evidence to have me put in prison for the rest of my life. The things I had done that night though, had been what lawyers like to call in extremis.

Sitting in the front seat of Drill’s car, firing the AK-47 wildly, not really aiming, was a totally different matter than putting a gun to someone’s forehead and pulling the trigger, but as I had discovered that night I am willing to do a lot to keep breathing.

“You ready?” Drill asked as he finished concealing an arsenal on his person.

I put the 1911 in inside the waistband or iwb holster and stood up. My nerves were starting to chatter and even in the cool of the air conditioned hotel room I was sweating. I nodded and smiled uncertainly as I looked Drill in the eye “let’s do this”.

He returned my smile “Easy now. You’re not quite there.”  Drill reached down and grabbed a plate-carrier and handed it to me. “Put that on, underneath your shirt. . . ” he looked me over once more “here, take this too. Backup.” he said as he handed me a small dull-silver revolver. “Toss it in your front pocket. Remember to keep track of your shots if you have to use it. It holds 5 rounds, so make ’em count.”

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror looking myself over. The plate carrier I wore beneath my shirt was fairly obvious if you were looking. I made a quick decision and swapped the plain t-shirt for a long sleeved button down shirt that was a little more loose fitting and rolled up the sleeves. I looked again, satisfied now that I wouldn’t draw as much attention as we walked through the crowds of the city.

Our plan, as it had been explained to me was just an extension of what Drill did on a daily basis, just done up close. It was now our job to create chaos so real change could be enacted through various means. Drill had explained several times that the things he did forced change either through political action or the switching of financial support and public opinion. I still wasn’t sure how an isolated incident of violence could cause that much change, but Drill assured me that his employers were adept at handling these matters.

They just needed legmen to get the ball rolling.

 

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