bokchoi
February 5, 2003, 10:10 PM
I go to the gun store today, as per my usual gun store vists every week to avoid having an unweildy mass begin to accumulate in my wallet, on the rare occasion it does. I like to think of it as a preventative practice.
It's the time of year that a few new/neato guns show up, a good time. A magical time.
I've already bought more guns in January than I did all of last year, so I figure that I should be satiated enough not to buy any more. After all, I have all the guns I want, right? I am set, I don't have to look anymore, and happiness for me is right around the corner.
Oh, how I always come to enjoy the taste of my own words.
Into the store I walk, and the usual staff is there, happy and bustling along with the work needed for the upcoming gun show. A lot of new products have arrived; some new CZs (the new polycoat looks very sharp), some new shotguns, and...
What's this on the shelf?
"New consignment gun. You know what it is," says Chris.
He hands me the HK Mark 23. The first time I have ever held this gun.
Hands trembling and palms sweating, a reluctantly take grasp, and realize what I have in my hands.
A real HK Mark 23. Probably the only one in Western Canada.
The gun is a colossus in my already large hands. It's weighted perfectly, it's shiny, almost brand-new. It's tactical.
"It's you," he says. That bastard.
But it isn't. Something isn't right about this perfect moment. It takes me a moment to realize it, but I am both saddened and relieved by my revelation.
I can't do it. Even if I was rich enough to pay for it, to trade in virtually every gun I already owned for this fine example of German engineering, I won't be able to do such a fine piece of machinery justice. I am face-to-face with that girl on the TV commercials, the one who is always out of reach, out of my league. Now, in real life, I realize my true position, and that I must not overstep my boundaries. I return the pistol to Chris, a look of shock and disbelief on his face in response to my, or its rejection.
... what is that?
Another voice has just called out, grabbing my attention. I look down and to the right, and there, in the next case, something catches my eye. Something big.
Chris takes the shiny blued revolver out of the case. "A Taurus," he says. I nod slightly, unsure of what I'm getting into, considering my experience with only S&Ws, my faithful companions. "Look," he grins as he opens the cylinder of the 8" monster. He pops out the protective plastic ring.
Woah. That's... one two three four five SIX seven eight EIGHT chambers...?
"Taurus M608. Eight rounds of three-fifty-seven. Ported Barrel, too."
I hold the gun. I play... no, I dance with it. There is something happening here. I look at the price tag.
The accumulation in my wallet sees its last moments with nary a twitch.
I look back once as I leave the store, the neglected polymer .45 sitting on the back counter. HK. I am SO sorry.
It's the time of year that a few new/neato guns show up, a good time. A magical time.
I've already bought more guns in January than I did all of last year, so I figure that I should be satiated enough not to buy any more. After all, I have all the guns I want, right? I am set, I don't have to look anymore, and happiness for me is right around the corner.
Oh, how I always come to enjoy the taste of my own words.
Into the store I walk, and the usual staff is there, happy and bustling along with the work needed for the upcoming gun show. A lot of new products have arrived; some new CZs (the new polycoat looks very sharp), some new shotguns, and...
What's this on the shelf?
"New consignment gun. You know what it is," says Chris.
He hands me the HK Mark 23. The first time I have ever held this gun.
Hands trembling and palms sweating, a reluctantly take grasp, and realize what I have in my hands.
A real HK Mark 23. Probably the only one in Western Canada.
The gun is a colossus in my already large hands. It's weighted perfectly, it's shiny, almost brand-new. It's tactical.
"It's you," he says. That bastard.
But it isn't. Something isn't right about this perfect moment. It takes me a moment to realize it, but I am both saddened and relieved by my revelation.
I can't do it. Even if I was rich enough to pay for it, to trade in virtually every gun I already owned for this fine example of German engineering, I won't be able to do such a fine piece of machinery justice. I am face-to-face with that girl on the TV commercials, the one who is always out of reach, out of my league. Now, in real life, I realize my true position, and that I must not overstep my boundaries. I return the pistol to Chris, a look of shock and disbelief on his face in response to my, or its rejection.
... what is that?
Another voice has just called out, grabbing my attention. I look down and to the right, and there, in the next case, something catches my eye. Something big.
Chris takes the shiny blued revolver out of the case. "A Taurus," he says. I nod slightly, unsure of what I'm getting into, considering my experience with only S&Ws, my faithful companions. "Look," he grins as he opens the cylinder of the 8" monster. He pops out the protective plastic ring.
Woah. That's... one two three four five SIX seven eight EIGHT chambers...?
"Taurus M608. Eight rounds of three-fifty-seven. Ported Barrel, too."
I hold the gun. I play... no, I dance with it. There is something happening here. I look at the price tag.
The accumulation in my wallet sees its last moments with nary a twitch.
I look back once as I leave the store, the neglected polymer .45 sitting on the back counter. HK. I am SO sorry.