Another Day in the Life of a Gun

I am a gun. Yes, I know what I am: I was created to maim and kill. Possibly I have taken someone in your family before. Maybe I haven’t yet, but give it time. I have all the patience in the world.

Right now, I’m homeless. My previous owner threw me across a field while he set off in a different direction, getting chased by other fiends. I have been an orphan since the day I was forged. I have exchanged more owners than I can count. It’s only a matter of time before someone new sees me, takes a liking to me, and decides to bring me to his home. Usually it’s a he; it almost always is a he. All I have to do is lie here and wait. How long, you ask? Hopefully not too long. Like I said before, I’ve got plenty of patience.

Days go by. I feel the grass grow all around me. I lose track of time (not like it has ever mattered to me), and still I continue my vigil. Then I hear voices — two young men arguing over pussy. One of them stops and signals his buddy at me.

“Could that be what I think it is?”

“No fucking way.”

“Whose gun is it?”

“The fuck do you care? Grab it and let’s get outta here!”

A hand picks me up and dumps me into his jacket pocket and then I bounce off with them. You see? I told you it was only a matter of time.

My new owner takes me to his pad and stuffs me inside a box, then hides me inside his closet. It’s so dark in here I can hardly breathe. Nothing to do but wait it out and see what he does with me.

He takes me out of the box later to clean me up. He gives me a good oiling, checked every component of my anatomy, and when I get cleaned up, he chambers rounds inside me. Jacketed rounds, I notice. He spins my cylinder then slaps me shut. He takes aim at his mirror reflection and strikes a tough-guy pose.

“Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me, motherfucker?”

I’d give him an Oscar if I haven’t seen better imitations already. He brings me a leather holster pouch the next day — my very own comfort. He mentions something about seeing me tomorrow before stuffing me back into his closet.

The next evening I am ready for my owner. He and his buddy come in the room, mapping out their plan one final time before my owner digs me out of the box and wraps me in my holster around his hips. He makes a crack about looking like John Wayne. His buddy isn’t impressed and tells him to shut the fuck up and let’s get going.

We march down the stairs and get into a car waiting across the street and then we drive off. Rap music blare out of their car stereo. My owner sucks on a joint and he and his buddy pass it back and forth. No way I can tell where they are going, but I know whatever it was won’t be good. I don’t require a sixth sense to know that wherever I’m being taken, there’s bound to be trouble. But I stay indifferent about it. Doesn’t matter whose life I claim, as long as my owner knows how to aim straight and don’t miss. He wants the power, and I’m gonna give it to him as long as he doesn’t fuck things up.

Our ride ends as they cruise into a dark alley. My owner kills the ignition, then he and his buddy put on ski masks over their face. He pulls me out of my holster and cocks my hammer and smiles.

“Let’s do this.”

They jump out of the car and scramble across the street into another alley. They jimmy their way through a backdoor into the building. Neither of them mutter a sound — they know what they’re here for, all right. It turns out to be a jewelry store. My owner sneaks behind the display counter and cracks a hole through the glass and starts grabbing the fine glitter that’s inside while his buddy stands watch beside the window.

Everything is going smooth as planned when suddenly an alarm bell goes off. The room light’s up like a disco hall. My owner is stunned, and so too is his buddy.

“The fuck?”

“Yo, man, let’s fucking split!”

My owner dumps ounces of glittering stones into a knapsack he had brought with him. He grabs me from where he had left me on the counter, then he and his buddy scramble back the way they had come.

The alarm noise is blaring louder outside. I hear police sirens in the distance drawing closer as we race towards the mouth of the alley. My owner is grunting furiously and cursing aloud, too. His buddy trips and lands on his face. My owner stops to help him. The cop sirens are almost upon us. My owner and his buddy are halfway across the street when the cops arrive, blocking their route.

One cop, and then another, jump out of their vehicles, take aim at my owner and his buddy and yell: “FREEZE! DROP IT!”

My owner doesn’t catch that, or maybe he doesn’t want to get caught; he wants to go out like epic John Wayne.

He aims me at one of the cops and says: “Are you talking to me?”

The cops then opened fire on.

He grunts, then crumbles to the ground dead, as do I. His buddy falls to his knees and holds up both hands and yells: “Don’t shoot!”

The cops push him to the ground and then one of them slaps a pair of handcuffs on his wrists behind his back. They pull him to his feet and lead him to a squad car. My owner lies bleeding beside me. I wish I got to know him before he died; he seemed like such a nice guy.

One of the cops puts me in a white nylon bag and takes me to his car. Already I’m missing my holster. Oh, well, at least I didn’t get to shoot nobody tonight. But maybe next time. Who knows, it might be you.

Find me here: https://linktr.ee/Dsoul360

My heart goes out to all the families who have lost a loved one to gun violence. Let’s find a way to stop this menace, people! Read the previous half of this story below.