#gunfever

Kalashnikov snorted at that remark. “Nah, mate. I know when to pick my battles. Ma’s always telling me to tighten the noose all fierce-like. But it ain’t just about keeping the people in line - decency yields decency. At least that’s what I’ve found with the masses.” He paused for a moment, before chuckling at some errant thought drifting through his mind.

The man in the mirror was unmistakably him, yet his reflection stared back with steel-blue eyes, not hazel green. Both were scarred, wizened old blokes, but he couldn’t help but notice a subtly different maze of scars on his “reflection.”  How had their lives diverged?

Time to start with the basics.

“So, tell me, Major…“ He gingerly placed his hand against the mirror, half expecting to meet human flesh instead of cold glass. “Name? Birthplace? Parents?“

--

Kalashnikov puts his hand in the same place, noting that his hand is just a fraction longer--on the middle finger. Heh. Fitting. He feels glass beneath it, but he can imagine the warmth. Feels a kinship.

“I like the cut of your jib there,” he says on a chuckle. “Being feared and nothing else gets tired after the first few years. Name’s Eric Slade. Eric Alexander Slade. I go by Kalashnikov, though. Born in Towoomba, 1988. Parents are Gerald Slade and Anya Kalashnikova--never have known Ma’s last name.”

Interesting how this version has hazel eyes and he doesn’t, yet in pretty much everything else, they could be identical twins.

This didn't happen.

As a child I fancied myself a military buff. I loved building model tanks and ships plus my favorite places to visit during vacations were war museums. Movies like "Saving Private Ryan" and "Blackhawk Down" cemented themselves as personal favorites while I  definitely shouldn't have been watching them.

I've been playing video games since I was 2-years-old and shooters have eaten up a lot of my time. During college I spent dozens of hours researching firearms on the internet and talking to friends about what we should buy some day. Despite all of this, I had never fired an actual gun . . . until now.

Every fiber of my being believed that I would feel empowered, even relaxed, the moment that the first bullet left the cartridge. Reality, however, had other plans.

I knew that the gun would have some real weight to it. I knew that it would be loud. I knew that there would be recoil. Once I stepped into the booth, prepared myself, and squeezed the trigger for the first time, none of what I thought that I knew mattered.

It was terrifying. I was genuinely afraid of what was in my hands and its potential.

I was dressed to impress, just not with a gun.

After emptying a six round magazine, I proved to be about as (in)accurate as a stormtrooper. My body was noticeably moving in anticipation of the next shot. At one point I definitely closed my eyes as I fired down my lane (don't do that. Really don't do that).

I got a little bit better over time but never found a groove. Each passing moment seems to be relieving and inducing stress at the same time. Beforehand I did not expect to handle things the way that I did but perhaps I should have.

Super cars are amazing (I promise this is going somewhere). Stunning to look at, incredible to drive, and out of reach for 99% of people. I would love to sit behind the wheel of one but if given the opportunity I would probably be scared the entire time. It's likely that I would either wrap the car around a tree or drive painfully slow the entire time and fail to enjoy a single moment of it. 

Guns = Super Cars

Despite this sad realization and the lack of skill that I displayed, I would like to go again; see if I improve at all or at least feel more in control. At the very least I'll just be sure to head to the range straight after work (again) so I can win the imaginary award for best dressed.