Chapter 58: Pew Pew Pow-Wow

Chapter 58: Pew Pew Pow-Wow

International Tactical Training Seminars, Sylmar California. December 2010.

“This is my rifle~!” Tucked in the crook of my right hand, between my index and thumb, was a loaded gun.

“This is my gun~!” My left hand, far from remaining idle, gripped a boomstick of its own. Fingers curled around a tough denim holster that held two round magazines attached to a fleshy fuselage. Or, in layman’s terms, I molested myself.

“This is for fighting~!” I pumped my polymer pistol on the right.

“This is for fun~!” Then returned to jostling my jiggly jewels in my left. 

Combining the laissez-faire attitude towards firearms and the prodigious lungs of the quintessential drill sergeant, I wielded my weapon and wailed out my chant at full volume. I thought my pipes - two literal and one proverbial - were pretty good. Ideas for prospective, and thematic, stage names were already ricocheting around my head: ‘Guns & Hoses’, ‘Top Gun, Bottom Fun’, ‘Full Metal Jack-Off’, the puns were endless.

Predictably, however, nobody appreciated my extremely public military musical about my privates. “Someone please put a suppressor on that thing! I came here for violence, not vulgarity.” Anita was the first to try to muzzle me, as if I’d just flashed her.

Ben was none too pleased, either. I’d insistently dragged him away from counting my gold, and to the detriment of his delicate constitution, the surrounding piles of bullets and brass had squeezed all the boldness out of him. “Alright, haha, you’ve had your fun. Now, can we please return to civilisation? My ears are ringing already, and that’s before we’ve pulled a single trigger.” He’d stuck both of his penny-pinching pinkies inside of his ears.

Fedex, more used to the environment, had judiciously used the safety equipment made available to us and clogged hers with styrofoam plugs. Though, evidently, they weren’t doing a bang-up job. “Bas… This is a shooting school, no? Not a school shooting - you must stop screeching so horribly.”

“Belt out one tune…” and I was riddled with ridicule. I set down my weapon (both of them), crossed my arms, and pouted through my mumbled protest. Pointless to lodge it too loudly; I’d long since grown accustomed to guffaws instead of my well-deserved applause. Only the shower remained my last operatic bastion - Anita banned me from even humming anywhere else.

Then came comfort. A strong, calloused hand fell on my shoulder. Raising my ducked head, I sensed my despondence revolve into optimism. 

My new instructor was smiling at me - wide and welcoming even beneath his beefy mutton chops, NRA ball cap, and iridescent Oakleys (the ones with the neck strap). His thumb was up, along with my hopes. “Careful there, son. My firing range isn’t licenced to handle top secret government sonic incapacitators.” Only to be shot down. Treated like a bitch just because of a little fluctuating pitch. 

Damn my singing voice! It was a weapon of Bas destruction! “Bringing you all here has been tantamount to shooting myself in the foot.”

“Don’t let none get you down, boy. We’ll shoot a couple clips, and I promise it’ll perk you right back up. That’s the second amendment guarantee!” His salt and pepper bristles parted to show off his tobacco-stained teeth. His palm fell from my shoulder, wrapped around my wrist, and bent my arm at the elbow. My biceps bulged as he showed me I, too, had the right to bear arms.

Welcome to the gun show.

It was akin to discovering a folksy father figure I never knew I needed. “Thanks,” I hereby dub thee, “Chops-pops.”

“Cool beans.” He took it in stride and gathered us all over around the table ladened with today’s collection of lethal toys.

 Fedex, true to her word, had organised firearm training for me. Part of it was for the inevitable gun totting I was gonna be doing on-screen. I’m not Steven Seagal. Neither am I a third-rate schlocky procedural show detective. If I’m gonna pop a cap in anyone’s arse, I’m gonna make damn well sure I do it as authentically as feasibly possible. 

The next part was obviously stress relief - for the full crew. Albeit, not my preferred brand of it; but don’t expect to see me at any orgies anywhere near the Hollywood Hills. 

“Aight, folks, gather ‘round. These are our tools of the trade tonight.” Chops spread-arm gestured at his cheap, plastic foldable table topped high with ammo and artillery. “Now, before we engage our trigger fingers, I need to remind ya’ll, again, of our security measures. Three Ss,”

At his command, we each picked up a pistol like we’d practised earlier in the indoor range. I went for the Glock. Fedex swatted my hand away before the magazine clicked into place, tutting her tongue all the while. Tut-tut-tut! “Beretta 92FS. It is better.” Given the name, Italian-made, her bias was showing. Or her dubious background. Coin toss on that one.

“First thing first, S numero uno - stance. Feet apart, knees limber, and arms firm.” Heeding his instruction, we aimed our barrels at the bullet bitten brushland. “Second S - sights.” Raising my arms ever so slightly, I stared straight down the iron sights. Both eyes open for depth perception. No glint or glare disturbed me, courtesy of the sheet metal awning effectively shading my vision from the California sun. “Pick your targets - and make sure it’s not each other.” 

“Don’t tempt -foo- me!” Anita blew away a stray bang from obstructing her sight. Blink left, blink right, both eyes closed - and oop, she realised her mistake and went back to struggling with all two of her eyes. “By the way, aren’t there, like, fancy attachments on these things? Why am I aiming this thing like it’s an eighteenth century musket? Red dots? Infrared shit? Night vision… light vision?” Actually, I’d quite enjoy seeing that, too. Not the tech, I mean. 

I wanna see a shark with frickin’ laser beams attached to her head!

“Planning on conducting an insurgency on a terrorist facility in midnight Fallujah? If not, we’ll keep those big boys in reserve for when you join delta forces, ma’am.”

“Iraq is a flight too far. But I wouldn’t mind raiding a mansion or studio in Beverly Hills though, I tell you what.” Four sets of eyes locked me in their crosshairs. Anticipation greeted me from three pairs; Ben was the only one who looked even remotely alarmed. “Just kidding?” Disappointment, as per usual, followed the last wonky words out of my mouth - didn’t give me the same fuzzies it typically would. Might have to find a way to remedy that some day.

“For now, how about we stick to good ol’ fashion marksmanship?” Chops pointed his finger guns out towards the arming range to get us to refocus. Tyre walls, metallic swinging human targets, orange traffic cones and barricades, Venus de Milo-esque shopping mall mannequins, and the ubiquitous empty beer bottles. “The third and final S - stupidity. As our boy here demonstrated so helpfully earlier, it is a common instinct many people have. Don’t listen to it, keep that shit holstered. So, enough of the suicide prevention spiel. Let’s shoot some fuckin’ guns!”

I flicked off the safety, aimed down the sight at the logo of dos equis, smoothly caressed my fingertip from the guard to the trigger, and pulled. Bang! Momentary blindness took me as the muzzle blasted a bright plume of fire. The thunderous crack drove me deaf, too. But I swear I could almost hear my grazing bullet shatter the lip of the bottle, even ten yards away from it. 

Tension seeped out of my body even as I stood ramrod taught to receive the recoil. I pressed again. Bang! And again. Bang! And again, and again. Empty shells ejected themselves out of the chamber, filling me with coursing adrenaline. 

The slide locked back to reveal an empty chamber and magazine. I only realised when small gouts of dust and splattering splinters stopped erupting with every flex of my hand. 

I reshuffled my stance. Less in response to moving out of it while firing, and more as a consequence of hormones stirring awake and knocking me off balance. One of my thighs abruptly weighed heavier and tighter on the in-seam than the other. 

Couldn’t blame my earlier bit of fondling for that. “Whoo! What a rush!” That peppery fragrance of roasting gunpowder wafted up my nose, reminding me almost of exploding fireworks - and very much put me on the verge of turning into one myself. 

The fuse had been lit. “I think I’ve hit my quota of excitement for the day.” Which Ben’s warbly whisper suddenly subdued. Well, that, as well as the current state of him. 

His biology had run roughshod over my poor accountant. Carefully coiffed hair now matted under the head strap of his ear protection, PPE goggles steamed up, and his crisp white shirt rendered see through by the cortisol flavoured sweat soaked into the fibres. 

I saw his nipples. I wished I hadn’t. My trousers tailored themselves to their original fit. It was a strange sensation, being comfortable and uncomfortable simultaneously. 

Chops cruised over while scratching his scalp under his hat. “Welp, ya’ll got gumption. Can’t deny that.” He methodically secured my pistol and set it down. “You’re grouping could use some work. But don’t worry, we’ll have you doing spec-ops missions in your sleep in no time.” Then he took the trembling gun from Ben. “Not you, son. Take a break before you wet yourself… more.” 

“Oh, thank God!”

“My aim isn’t the issue. It’s these damn pea-shooters!” Anita was quick to make excuses for her broadside barn-sized bullseye hit rate. “Don’t you have something with more kick?” 

“It is not the gun.” Fedex slotted in another mag, racked back the slide, and shot down the range, one hand on the trigger, the other in her pocket. Boom - ting. Boom - ting. Boom - ting. Nailing every steel silhouette with a casual headshot. Clearly I was in very good bad hands. “You only need the proper motivation.”

“Great idea!” I’d packed a little treat for us. “I have just the thing for it.” Quirking at Ben, I brought his attention to my rucksack, next to his bouncing feet. 

He reached in and yanked out a thick roll of papers. Nabbing them, I unfurled them to our group to unveil our next targets.

“I do not foresee anyone missing those.” 

Anita snarled and snatched the mug shots of both Venit and Robinov I’d marked rings with points on. She hustled over and plastered them on the nearest mannequins. Chops sauntered over to the weapons display and prepped what appeared to be a shotgun. “Something tells me ya’ll are gonna need a higher calibre.”

Soon enough, “Raaaah!” Anita ceaselessly unloaded round after round of buckshot into what used to be Jeff’s photo. “Be a doll and get me a bazooka, would you?” 

“That ain’t sanctioned for use here either, ma’am.”

Anita, though, was waging a war. “Then what the hell are you good for?” 

She aimed the shotty at Venit’s face and hit it dead-centre. “Absolutely nothing, apparently.” She pumped and dumped ‘til both the chambered ammo and hung targets were totally torn through.

“Feel better?” I was the only one brave enough to approach her.

 “Yeah.”

“Wanna grab a hot dog?”

“Yeah!”

–

“You know,” Ben waved his wiener while speaking through his mustard stained lips, “I still don’t fully get Robinov’s deal. I mean, why try to back Bas into a corner so badly? Why meddle so much in his affairs to get all of us shit-canned and isolate him? I thought by now they’d know just what kind of person Bas is.”

“They do. They just don’t care.” Anita rabidly chewed through her own hotdog and remained just as frank(furter) with her next words. “You’ve gotta understand. The suits at the top don’t see people, they see numbers. And in their eyes, Bas is a giant, walking, gold bar. Unfortunately for us, they want him locked up in their vault tighter than Fort Knox. He’s a box office draw - one they only want for the franchises WB needs to get off the ground. They need him in control, and only theirs. We’re just cotton stuffing in his ears, preventing them getting through. We need to be plucked - from the budget, too. It’s more cost effective to keep as much of the cuts they strip off Bas for themselves, as well. Plus, honestly? Guys like Robinov don’t share - especially when they’re crushing it professionally. Arrogance gets the best of them - they refuse to listen to anyone else but themselves. They’ll never use honey when vinegar is a hell of a lot cheaper - and they have a taste for it, anyway.”

“Those who’ve only ever operated in bad faith cannot understand goodwill. I can say this from experience.” Fedex added her own gold nugget of wisdom.

“That’s just the biz, sweetheart.” Better to be feared than loved.

“What is more pressing, however, is if and how we choose to retaliate, no?” 

“Ya’ll mind if I provide some unsolicited advice?” Chops-pops had joined us for our snack-fest cum strategy meeting. 

“Shoot.” Don’t expect apologies for that out of me. It was irresistible.

“Way I see it, you gotta both prove your value outside of WB and scare ‘em a little too by letting them know you can function just fine without ‘em. Democracy is easier when you can nuke your ops.”

Sound advice. Visions of me dual-wielding Berettas against a hoard of corp g-men while birds fly between us, while I launch myself sideways midair John Woo style. “Hey, Chops, would you mind terribly if I brought a flock of doves to the range?” 

“Bas, no!” Bas, yes.

“Kid, you wanna learn how to breach through a skyscraper window, toss yourself out of a plane, surf on the top of a train, whatever. As long as you’re playing with guns during it, I can teach how. Just sign the waiver.”

Cool beans. “Chops, get ready to add a fourth S to your rulebook.” Stunts, shenanigans, “spectacle!”