::Guns, part 2

Two Wednesdays ago, one of my neighbors shot a man who kicked in his front door in broad daylight. I opened my front door to find three news vans baking in the summer sun, and a dozen cop cars, and yellow tape that said:

“CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS – And by the way, you do not live in as nice of a neighborhood as you thought you did – DO NOT CROSS…”

That engendered a pretty weird feeling in me – since I was working from home that day. It could have happened to me, and I would have been facing the 23-year-old burglar with naught but a rapier and a bellyful of indignant rage.

I didn’t actually find out from anyone on the street whether or not the burglar was armed.

I found myself idly wondering about my rather sudden decision to learn about guns, and then the sudden advent of gunplay on my street. The more occult-minded side of me is hemming and hawing about whether it was a matter of subconscious precognition — or whether my learning about guns precipitated “like attracting like”, bringing the matter to the forefront.

Eh. It’s just that a coincidence like that is hard to take any way but seriously.

So, my buddy and I went out shooting again. I was pretty well settled on a shotgun by this point, so that’s all we brought. Well, that and a big box of clay birds.

Skeet shooting has always looked really hard! I figured that I would go something like 0-for-20, then pop one and be satsified. Instead, I missed my first two – and went something like 70% for the evening after that. Wow, what a visceral and gratifying feeling. Those little orange discs blow apart like something out of a movie. Which is just the point, of course.

We also went shopping so that I could check out the prices on different sorts of guns. I’m not sure that I want (or need) to spend more than $300 or so to get something that will do the job. Well, whichever job I use it for.

Because if someone ever kicks in *my* front door, I don’t want to send them to the hospital, like my neighbor did.

Ideally, I’d like them to turn tail and run. I think I can be honest about that, since I’ve had a couple of weeks to think about it. I’d like to rack that shotgun and send my first shot through the ceiling, then hear footsteps pounding out the front door. But, failing that, I don’t want a struggle. I don’t want a wounded man gasping on the floor. I don’t want a moral dilemma about how quickly to call 911. I want a very large exit wound and a pile of hamburger.

Or, better yet, I buy a shotgun and store it somewhere safe, and pull it out a few times a year to turn money into noise and orange discs into small pieces. That would be the best thing of all.