I Can't Miss
Jun 6, 2017 0:38:29 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, Rage (aka NoMercyMaster2001), and 3 more like this
Post by nudedragon24 on Jun 6, 2017 0:38:29 GMT -5
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
Gunshots echo through a poorly built indoor gun range. There's only a few people inhabiting their booths, one with the US Constitution designed into his buttoned up shirt, tucked into his clean blue Levi jeans. His cowboy boots let off a shine off the brown polished snakeskin that would put the bald head of Rage to shame. His face is out of view as his cowboy hat casts a dark shadow over his features.
I never believed that one day, this would be me.
He precedes to load his handgun, a Remington 1911 with a wooden feature on the grip, and holsters it in his belt. He lets out a sigh as he slowly faces his target. Ten yards away from him is his target, hanging down from the pulley system.
And yet, here I am.
The man dressed in the US Constitution quickly draws his weapon and fires on his target, emptying his clip in a quick but efficient manner.
The smell of ignited gunpowder and burning lead has the power of a dozen cups of coffee for me. Maybe it's the just the chemistry, it could be the power of the gun... But gunsmoke and scrambled eggs beat anything I've had growing up. It's a long way from second hand cigarette smoke for breakfast.
The target reels in for the man in the booth. Bullet holes scatter the target, a normal ringed target practice pad with the silhouette of a man. The man grabs the target pad and examines it in his hands. He nods, "not bad" he thinks to himself.
Not bad at all.
The man in the US Constitution shirt takes his handgun, now emptied, and holsters it. He hesitates for a moment, but then slowly begins to turn behind him, slowly revealing his face in the light.
Not bad for an old man.
He smiles. Across from the old man, in the US Constitution shirt, is another man in a black leather jacket and faded blue jeans. He sits on a bench facing the old man with his back against the wall, and the light above burned out which prevents his face from being revealed again. The old man walks over, still grinning. He puts a hand on the shoulder of the leather jacket.
Good luck, kid. I can't... I can't agree with what you're doing.. but I hope you get what you're looking for.
Me too.
Thank you.
The old man smirks one more time, pauses as if he wants to say something, but then starts to walk away. The man in the leather jacket pushes himself up and walks into the booth, face temporarily obscured by the old man's path.
I used to come here to calm my nerves and let out the aggression that wrestling used to take care of in it's place. For a long time I came here to scratch that itch that was left behind from years of adrenaline fueled competition. Now, I'm here for a different reason...
The man pulls out a target practice sheet from his jacket, except instead of your standard sheet, it's a sized up 8x10 of Mongo the Destroyer from the shoulders up. He clips it to the pulley system and presses the button, sending the target 10 yards out in front of him.
Now, I'm here for one purpose.
He man pulls out an 1875 Outlaw Colt .45 from a holster clipped to his belt. He unlocks the chamber and begins digging around his leather coat. A single bullet.
Soon, we will meet again.
He slides the bullet in, and pops the chamber back into place. He lifts the gun with one arm and his shoulders almost parallel with the target. He pulls back the hammer with his thumb.
And I can't miss.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
Gunshots echo through a poorly built indoor gun range. There's only a few people inhabiting their booths, one with the US Constitution designed into his buttoned up shirt, tucked into his clean blue Levi jeans. His cowboy boots let off a shine off the brown polished snakeskin that would put the bald head of Rage to shame. His face is out of view as his cowboy hat casts a dark shadow over his features.
I never believed that one day, this would be me.
He precedes to load his handgun, a Remington 1911 with a wooden feature on the grip, and holsters it in his belt. He lets out a sigh as he slowly faces his target. Ten yards away from him is his target, hanging down from the pulley system.
And yet, here I am.
The man dressed in the US Constitution quickly draws his weapon and fires on his target, emptying his clip in a quick but efficient manner.
The smell of ignited gunpowder and burning lead has the power of a dozen cups of coffee for me. Maybe it's the just the chemistry, it could be the power of the gun... But gunsmoke and scrambled eggs beat anything I've had growing up. It's a long way from second hand cigarette smoke for breakfast.
The target reels in for the man in the booth. Bullet holes scatter the target, a normal ringed target practice pad with the silhouette of a man. The man grabs the target pad and examines it in his hands. He nods, "not bad" he thinks to himself.
Not bad at all.
The man in the US Constitution shirt takes his handgun, now emptied, and holsters it. He hesitates for a moment, but then slowly begins to turn behind him, slowly revealing his face in the light.
Not bad for an old man.
He smiles. Across from the old man, in the US Constitution shirt, is another man in a black leather jacket and faded blue jeans. He sits on a bench facing the old man with his back against the wall, and the light above burned out which prevents his face from being revealed again. The old man walks over, still grinning. He puts a hand on the shoulder of the leather jacket.
Good luck, kid. I can't... I can't agree with what you're doing.. but I hope you get what you're looking for.
Me too.
Thank you.
The old man smirks one more time, pauses as if he wants to say something, but then starts to walk away. The man in the leather jacket pushes himself up and walks into the booth, face temporarily obscured by the old man's path.
I used to come here to calm my nerves and let out the aggression that wrestling used to take care of in it's place. For a long time I came here to scratch that itch that was left behind from years of adrenaline fueled competition. Now, I'm here for a different reason...
The man pulls out a target practice sheet from his jacket, except instead of your standard sheet, it's a sized up 8x10 of Mongo the Destroyer from the shoulders up. He clips it to the pulley system and presses the button, sending the target 10 yards out in front of him.
Now, I'm here for one purpose.
He man pulls out an 1875 Outlaw Colt .45 from a holster clipped to his belt. He unlocks the chamber and begins digging around his leather coat. A single bullet.
Soon, we will meet again.
He slides the bullet in, and pops the chamber back into place. He lifts the gun with one arm and his shoulders almost parallel with the target. He pulls back the hammer with his thumb.
And I can't miss.
BANG!