Cmdr. Gravez0r
Member
- Joined
- Aug 26, 2007
- Messages
- 427
INTRODUCTION
I sing of arms and of a man.
~Virgil, Aeneid, l. 1
Let me start off by saying what this story is not.
It is not a gun fantasy story. There are guns in it, but they are the normal sort of guns you will find in pockets, closets, and the hands of regular troops worldwide.
This is not a gun-owner’s fantasy story. The main character is a gun owner like you and me who enjoys shooting, but this story is not geared toward those who are jonesing to engage in running gun battles. There are running gun battles in this book, and they may even be entertaining to read, but I have yet to talk to a single gun fight survivor who said he enjoyed shooting at people and being shot at.
This story does not propose gun ownership to be a causal element in the reduction of human suffering. Though I am well aware of the benefits of an armed populace, this story reflects the human nature that is the root cause of the world’s problems. Guns can help, but at the end of the day they are a reaction, not a solution.
One final remark. The first couple of chapters start out rosy, but trust me, this ain’t no happy-happy story. Things will start to explode soon enough.
Your comments and feedback are welcome. Though much of the story is already written, I will be happy to take suggestions on guns you would like to see used, or how you think certain elements should play out.
Best Regards,
M. G. Bradshaw
CHAPTER ONE: ESCAPE FROM THE IVORY TOWER
I got me a brand new car
Sittin' in the drive way
Shinin' like a bright new star
Been wishin' on it every day...
~Steve Azar, "I Don't Have To Be Me (Till Monday)"
College is a boring place. Once you get past the parties, the ball games, the pranks, the girls—and lets face it, they’re all out of your league anyways—it comes down to a lot of studying and the grades you graduate with. Boring stuff.
That was where life found me at the end of the fall term near a small, oak-sprinkled campus in the Southeast. I was sitting in my off-campus house I shared with four other dudes, pondering my little college life. The ivory tower environment, dominated by sweater-and-scarf-wearing business majors and their trophy girlfriends, left me restless and pining for my rural home, where the water tower was painted John Deere Green and you can’t pick up NPR.
The semester was coming to a close, with only two days of “award ceremonies” left. The thought of sitting through one more back-patting session for the over-achieving Ivy League wannabes drove me almost to tears. I agonized over playing hooky for a grand total of about two seconds. Deciding what to fill that time with took another two seconds. With my mind loosed from the albatross of drudgery, I bounded up the groaning stairs to my room and pulled two guitar cases out from under the single bed. After listening to make sure none of my house mates were prowling around upstairs, I put them both on the bed and opened them.
In one was a 1924 Yugoslavian Mauser rifle. I eased this piece of history out of its improvised case and hefted it, working the butter-smooth bolt as I caught a whiff of cosmoline packing grease still soaked into the dark elm stock. After taking in its fine lines and pristine finish I gently set it back in the guitar case.
In the other case dwelt my Yugoslavian SKS rifle. The SKS is a 1940’s era design, the essence of simplicity and durability, hampered only by a comparably few ten rounds per magazine. Though both rifles were military in origin, this one was less of a collector’s item than a retired veteran of battle. The bluing was worn on the angled edges, and its scarred stock sported a unique Serbian Cross carved by some forgotten soldier. It too bore the scent of cosmoline—the smell of history. After checking the action and peering down the sights at a picture of a local politician whose likeness I kept there for that purpose, I replaced the weapon in its case.
Just then I heard footfalls on the stairs. I quickly but quietly closed the lids and latched the cases. A brief knock sounded on the doorframe. “Come on in.”
The door opened, revealing Boone, one of my house mates. “Me and the guys are going to town for a sandwich and stuff if you want to come.” He spotted the closed cases on the bed. “You playing today?”
“Yeah, I got a gig down in Little River this afternoon.”
“Too bad I never get to hear you play. If I didn’t know better I’d think you had guns in those cases like the old gangsters.” He chuckled at his own joke. You have no idea.
“Nope, just some instruments,” I replied. Instruments of war. Internal chuckle. “You should hear these babies when they get warmed up.”
He nodded absent-mindedly. “I bet. Well, I’m gonna go on, then. Have fun.” He dashed back down the stairs and out the front door which he slammed, rattling the frame of the 80-year old house. If I’m lucky, he’ll never find out I can’t even play the guitar.
I peered out the blinds to make sure he was gone, and then pulled two green ammo cases from underneath the bed. On was filled with the medium-powered 7.62x39mm cartridges for the SKS, the other with the somewhat more potent 8x57mm shells for the Mauser.
From the bottom of my undies drawer I pulled a black Tokarev, a Romanian-built Russian design that fired the speedy 7.62x25 cartridge. I slipped it into my waistband—my state allowed concealed carry in the car without a permit—and started toting my equipment downstairs.
I took a few trips down to the car to store everything securely in the trunk. Once that was done, I cranked up the tiny engine on my ’99 Camry and backed out of the driveway. My tires had just edged out onto the asphalt when my rear view mirror was filled with a large black SUV. I had to stand on the brakes to avoid hitting the idiot driving it.
I expected it to keep moving but it just sat there, blocking my driveway. I tried to get a glimpse of something or someone inside the vehicle to indicate what the issue was, but the windows were tinted so darkly that was impossible. Finally I pulled back into the car port, go out, and walked slowly toward the SUV.I could see now it was a government vehicle, and that worried me. My parents were on embassy staff overseas in a turbulent country. Where they delivering bad news?
Two men in expensive suits finally got out and walked over. One flashed a government ID badge. “Brad Delmar. I’m with State. Are you Brad Le Roux?”
I nodded.
“I’m glad we caught you.”
“If by ‘caught’ you mean trapped in my own driveway by government goons, then yeah. What’s up? Is this about my parents?”
“Yes and no. We’ll need a few minutes of your time. We have a gentleman from South Africa who wants to speak with you.
“South Africa.” I repeated.
“He has a few questions about the work you did for State in 2003.”
“I think you’re confused. I don’t work for State. My parents do.”
“I’d be obliged if you would talk to the gentleman anyway. If you don’t mind, he’s waiting on you in the vehicle.”
The other G-man opened the door expectantly. I climbed in and came face to face with a tan countenance, salt-and-pepper mustache, and a very familiar face. I was surprised. Well, more than that. I was shocked.
“Johan Botha...I thought you were dead.”
I sing of arms and of a man.
~Virgil, Aeneid, l. 1
Let me start off by saying what this story is not.
It is not a gun fantasy story. There are guns in it, but they are the normal sort of guns you will find in pockets, closets, and the hands of regular troops worldwide.
This is not a gun-owner’s fantasy story. The main character is a gun owner like you and me who enjoys shooting, but this story is not geared toward those who are jonesing to engage in running gun battles. There are running gun battles in this book, and they may even be entertaining to read, but I have yet to talk to a single gun fight survivor who said he enjoyed shooting at people and being shot at.
This story does not propose gun ownership to be a causal element in the reduction of human suffering. Though I am well aware of the benefits of an armed populace, this story reflects the human nature that is the root cause of the world’s problems. Guns can help, but at the end of the day they are a reaction, not a solution.
One final remark. The first couple of chapters start out rosy, but trust me, this ain’t no happy-happy story. Things will start to explode soon enough.
Your comments and feedback are welcome. Though much of the story is already written, I will be happy to take suggestions on guns you would like to see used, or how you think certain elements should play out.
Best Regards,
M. G. Bradshaw
CHAPTER ONE: ESCAPE FROM THE IVORY TOWER
I got me a brand new car
Sittin' in the drive way
Shinin' like a bright new star
Been wishin' on it every day...
~Steve Azar, "I Don't Have To Be Me (Till Monday)"
College is a boring place. Once you get past the parties, the ball games, the pranks, the girls—and lets face it, they’re all out of your league anyways—it comes down to a lot of studying and the grades you graduate with. Boring stuff.
That was where life found me at the end of the fall term near a small, oak-sprinkled campus in the Southeast. I was sitting in my off-campus house I shared with four other dudes, pondering my little college life. The ivory tower environment, dominated by sweater-and-scarf-wearing business majors and their trophy girlfriends, left me restless and pining for my rural home, where the water tower was painted John Deere Green and you can’t pick up NPR.
The semester was coming to a close, with only two days of “award ceremonies” left. The thought of sitting through one more back-patting session for the over-achieving Ivy League wannabes drove me almost to tears. I agonized over playing hooky for a grand total of about two seconds. Deciding what to fill that time with took another two seconds. With my mind loosed from the albatross of drudgery, I bounded up the groaning stairs to my room and pulled two guitar cases out from under the single bed. After listening to make sure none of my house mates were prowling around upstairs, I put them both on the bed and opened them.
In one was a 1924 Yugoslavian Mauser rifle. I eased this piece of history out of its improvised case and hefted it, working the butter-smooth bolt as I caught a whiff of cosmoline packing grease still soaked into the dark elm stock. After taking in its fine lines and pristine finish I gently set it back in the guitar case.
In the other case dwelt my Yugoslavian SKS rifle. The SKS is a 1940’s era design, the essence of simplicity and durability, hampered only by a comparably few ten rounds per magazine. Though both rifles were military in origin, this one was less of a collector’s item than a retired veteran of battle. The bluing was worn on the angled edges, and its scarred stock sported a unique Serbian Cross carved by some forgotten soldier. It too bore the scent of cosmoline—the smell of history. After checking the action and peering down the sights at a picture of a local politician whose likeness I kept there for that purpose, I replaced the weapon in its case.
Just then I heard footfalls on the stairs. I quickly but quietly closed the lids and latched the cases. A brief knock sounded on the doorframe. “Come on in.”
The door opened, revealing Boone, one of my house mates. “Me and the guys are going to town for a sandwich and stuff if you want to come.” He spotted the closed cases on the bed. “You playing today?”
“Yeah, I got a gig down in Little River this afternoon.”
“Too bad I never get to hear you play. If I didn’t know better I’d think you had guns in those cases like the old gangsters.” He chuckled at his own joke. You have no idea.
“Nope, just some instruments,” I replied. Instruments of war. Internal chuckle. “You should hear these babies when they get warmed up.”
He nodded absent-mindedly. “I bet. Well, I’m gonna go on, then. Have fun.” He dashed back down the stairs and out the front door which he slammed, rattling the frame of the 80-year old house. If I’m lucky, he’ll never find out I can’t even play the guitar.
I peered out the blinds to make sure he was gone, and then pulled two green ammo cases from underneath the bed. On was filled with the medium-powered 7.62x39mm cartridges for the SKS, the other with the somewhat more potent 8x57mm shells for the Mauser.
From the bottom of my undies drawer I pulled a black Tokarev, a Romanian-built Russian design that fired the speedy 7.62x25 cartridge. I slipped it into my waistband—my state allowed concealed carry in the car without a permit—and started toting my equipment downstairs.
I took a few trips down to the car to store everything securely in the trunk. Once that was done, I cranked up the tiny engine on my ’99 Camry and backed out of the driveway. My tires had just edged out onto the asphalt when my rear view mirror was filled with a large black SUV. I had to stand on the brakes to avoid hitting the idiot driving it.
I expected it to keep moving but it just sat there, blocking my driveway. I tried to get a glimpse of something or someone inside the vehicle to indicate what the issue was, but the windows were tinted so darkly that was impossible. Finally I pulled back into the car port, go out, and walked slowly toward the SUV.I could see now it was a government vehicle, and that worried me. My parents were on embassy staff overseas in a turbulent country. Where they delivering bad news?
Two men in expensive suits finally got out and walked over. One flashed a government ID badge. “Brad Delmar. I’m with State. Are you Brad Le Roux?”
I nodded.
“I’m glad we caught you.”
“If by ‘caught’ you mean trapped in my own driveway by government goons, then yeah. What’s up? Is this about my parents?”
“Yes and no. We’ll need a few minutes of your time. We have a gentleman from South Africa who wants to speak with you.
“South Africa.” I repeated.
“He has a few questions about the work you did for State in 2003.”
“I think you’re confused. I don’t work for State. My parents do.”
“I’d be obliged if you would talk to the gentleman anyway. If you don’t mind, he’s waiting on you in the vehicle.”
The other G-man opened the door expectantly. I climbed in and came face to face with a tan countenance, salt-and-pepper mustache, and a very familiar face. I was surprised. Well, more than that. I was shocked.
“Johan Botha...I thought you were dead.”
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