Joe Demko
November 14, 2003, 12:45 PM
Gentlemen,
Some of you may remember my search for the perfect service pistol from a series of posts I made at the old TFL. Today, I’d like to share with you the hard-won wisdom of my search for the perfect patrol rifle. Rural western Pennsylvania can be a rough beat, so I determined that a patrol rifle was not only beneficial, but an actual necessity.
My first choice was an AR-15 rifle. I pegged my credit card and purchased a new full-auto Bushamster from B-Dawg’s House o’ MachineGunz n’ Stripperz. I receive a frequent customer discount there. He even threw in a couple orlites.
Well, my very first night on patrol with the new rifle, there were problems. I was pulled over at A&W Rootbeer on my lunchbreak when I got a call over the radio. It was a 10-J8K. That is a code phrase my department uses for “Amish amok.” A young Amish buck was “tearing it up” right in the center of town, it seemed.
I threw the cruiser into gear and redlined it the whole way into town, sirens wailing, lights flashing.
By the time I got there, the man in black had already tipped over the statue of Punxsutawney Phil and had his buggy hitched to the bronze of Jimmy Stewart for a repeat performance.
The Amish can be a rough bunch, and I knew there isn’t a handgun made that will reliably penetrate one of their buggies and still retain any lethality. So, I slapped an orlite full of greentips into the Bushamster, jumped out of the cruiser, and readied myself for the worst.
“You in the buggy!” I bellowed, “Drop the reins and come out with your hands up!”
No response except to lash the horse. Jimmy was looking none-too-steady.
“Last chance! Drop the reins and exit the buggy immediately!”
Again no response except to lash the horse, and Jimmy came crashing down.
Nobody does that to George Bailey in my jurisdiction and gets away with it. I squeezed off a burst from the Bushamster at the passenger compartment of the buggy. It did diddly beyond nick the paint. It wasn’t even an Amish AFB (Armored Fighting Buggy) and the damned wimpy 5.56 round failed to penetrate. It did get a response, though. My opponent kicked open the door of his vehicle and angrily screamed at me “Look what ya did ta the paint on my pappa’s buggy, ya darned Englishman!”
Seething with rage, he sprang from the buggy, brandishing a rake. Now, those of you who are high-speed, low drag operators are already aware that Amish Rake Fighting is the stealth martial art of the 21st century. Many an unwary lawman has met his demise at the hands of one of these bearded desperadoes because he mistook what is, in fact, a deadly weapon of destruction for a harmless agricultural implement. I, however, am no rookie.
I snapped the Bushamster to my shoulder, put the front site COM (just as I learned at Fire Site) and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. No bang. No click. Nothing. The damned Bushamster was jammed tight. Later, I found that the jam was caused by an eyebrow hair that I had apparently shed during my first burst at the buggy. It had worked its way into the rifle’s interior and hopelessly jammed the working parts. Gentlemen, believe me when I tell you that the AR-series is far too sensitive to environmental contamination to be taken seriously by any true student of weaponcraft.
At the point, the enraged Amishman was on top of me. No time to transition to another weapon. He swung the rake at me in a move that translates from their language as “churning butter during the quilting bee.” I brought the Bushamster up to block. The rake snapped the Bushamster cleanly in two right where the barrel joins the upper receiver. Another point I can’t emphasize enough, Gentlemen, is that the AR-series is far too fragile to withstand the rigors of close combat.
I am not completely without resources, though. I trained in Amish-style fighting under Grandmaster Jacob “Jake” Baierly so that I could survive encounters like this one. Before the perp could recover, I ditched the useless fragments of my weapon and snapped a “bailing hay in autumn” into his midsection and followed with a “chow-chow on roast pork” to his throat. I got lucky. He was careless. They never expect an Englishman to know “the way.” He collapsed like a fat woman at a Neil Diamond concert. I cuffed him and radioed that everything was under control. But, is everything ever really under control? Punxsy Phil and Jimmy Stewart lay in the dirt like yesterday’s discarded condoms. The Bushmaster had failed me when I needed it most. My quest for the perfect patrol rifle was about to begin in earnest and crime wouldn't wait iin the meantime.
Some of you may remember my search for the perfect service pistol from a series of posts I made at the old TFL. Today, I’d like to share with you the hard-won wisdom of my search for the perfect patrol rifle. Rural western Pennsylvania can be a rough beat, so I determined that a patrol rifle was not only beneficial, but an actual necessity.
My first choice was an AR-15 rifle. I pegged my credit card and purchased a new full-auto Bushamster from B-Dawg’s House o’ MachineGunz n’ Stripperz. I receive a frequent customer discount there. He even threw in a couple orlites.
Well, my very first night on patrol with the new rifle, there were problems. I was pulled over at A&W Rootbeer on my lunchbreak when I got a call over the radio. It was a 10-J8K. That is a code phrase my department uses for “Amish amok.” A young Amish buck was “tearing it up” right in the center of town, it seemed.
I threw the cruiser into gear and redlined it the whole way into town, sirens wailing, lights flashing.
By the time I got there, the man in black had already tipped over the statue of Punxsutawney Phil and had his buggy hitched to the bronze of Jimmy Stewart for a repeat performance.
The Amish can be a rough bunch, and I knew there isn’t a handgun made that will reliably penetrate one of their buggies and still retain any lethality. So, I slapped an orlite full of greentips into the Bushamster, jumped out of the cruiser, and readied myself for the worst.
“You in the buggy!” I bellowed, “Drop the reins and come out with your hands up!”
No response except to lash the horse. Jimmy was looking none-too-steady.
“Last chance! Drop the reins and exit the buggy immediately!”
Again no response except to lash the horse, and Jimmy came crashing down.
Nobody does that to George Bailey in my jurisdiction and gets away with it. I squeezed off a burst from the Bushamster at the passenger compartment of the buggy. It did diddly beyond nick the paint. It wasn’t even an Amish AFB (Armored Fighting Buggy) and the damned wimpy 5.56 round failed to penetrate. It did get a response, though. My opponent kicked open the door of his vehicle and angrily screamed at me “Look what ya did ta the paint on my pappa’s buggy, ya darned Englishman!”
Seething with rage, he sprang from the buggy, brandishing a rake. Now, those of you who are high-speed, low drag operators are already aware that Amish Rake Fighting is the stealth martial art of the 21st century. Many an unwary lawman has met his demise at the hands of one of these bearded desperadoes because he mistook what is, in fact, a deadly weapon of destruction for a harmless agricultural implement. I, however, am no rookie.
I snapped the Bushamster to my shoulder, put the front site COM (just as I learned at Fire Site) and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. No bang. No click. Nothing. The damned Bushamster was jammed tight. Later, I found that the jam was caused by an eyebrow hair that I had apparently shed during my first burst at the buggy. It had worked its way into the rifle’s interior and hopelessly jammed the working parts. Gentlemen, believe me when I tell you that the AR-series is far too sensitive to environmental contamination to be taken seriously by any true student of weaponcraft.
At the point, the enraged Amishman was on top of me. No time to transition to another weapon. He swung the rake at me in a move that translates from their language as “churning butter during the quilting bee.” I brought the Bushamster up to block. The rake snapped the Bushamster cleanly in two right where the barrel joins the upper receiver. Another point I can’t emphasize enough, Gentlemen, is that the AR-series is far too fragile to withstand the rigors of close combat.
I am not completely without resources, though. I trained in Amish-style fighting under Grandmaster Jacob “Jake” Baierly so that I could survive encounters like this one. Before the perp could recover, I ditched the useless fragments of my weapon and snapped a “bailing hay in autumn” into his midsection and followed with a “chow-chow on roast pork” to his throat. I got lucky. He was careless. They never expect an Englishman to know “the way.” He collapsed like a fat woman at a Neil Diamond concert. I cuffed him and radioed that everything was under control. But, is everything ever really under control? Punxsy Phil and Jimmy Stewart lay in the dirt like yesterday’s discarded condoms. The Bushmaster had failed me when I needed it most. My quest for the perfect patrol rifle was about to begin in earnest and crime wouldn't wait iin the meantime.