It’s one of those Katana Japanese sword type things that I am holding. The kind where two blades are hidden in the handle and you pull them apart and then you have two swords. The kind of impractical thing you see in movies or buy out of the back of a kung-fu magazine.

But this is just a distraction. This is just my coy way of getting close to the thing I am really after. The thing that is sitting so inanimate and so tempting on the table in front of me.  I have come hunting bigger game today, and goddamn it I will not puss out and I will not leave empty handed. I will have satisfaction.

“Ummmm, how much is that?.” I say, pointing.

“Ok. Is two hundreds and ten”

“I’m sorry, how much?”

“TWO – HUNDREDSSS. TWO HUNDREDS of dollars and ten.”

“Is it a good gun?”

“Yes, is good gun.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Is good gun”

“Do you want to see my ID?”

The Russian with a lazy lip and the scab under his eye looks at me with a touch panic and suspicion, but I am proud of the fact that I am 20. I want to take full advantage of it.

The fact that I am willing to go to the letter of the law in a place like this must trip an alarm in his head. 

Gun Shows are already places ripe with paranoia. 

You need look no further at the folding card tables stacked with libraries of books concerning how the CIA, and/or the ATF, and/ or the EPA and/or the IRS and/or the FBI, and/or the Jews, and/or the freemasons and/or skull and bones or the illuminati and/or sometimes a combination of all of them, are salivating for the chance to take away our liberties and our guns. And throw good Christian Americans in jail to make way for the New World Order. And the liberal media. Don’t forget about the liberal media.

“Oh, oh, yes, yes…must see ID of course.”

He fumbles with meaty fingers as I pull out my driver’s license. He gives a split second, nervous, glance but he doesn’t really look at it.

“I just want to do it right, legal…ya know.”

“Yes, yes.”

“How much again?’

“Two hundreds. And ten”

“Will you take 200?”

I have $210 in cash… total. My vow today was to walk out with at least something in my pocket. And I will. I am an adult now; I am walking with the big boys. I need to show I can negotiate with the big boys. I am no sucker. I can buy a gun. And I’m not about to look stupid in front of my girlfriend.

“No. Is two hundreds. And ten.”

“Ok.”

I pull the $210 from my pocket, and hand it over. He then motions that I am free to pick up what is now legally mine.

We make no eye contact. It’s a blurry and nervous exchange on both parts, and I get the sense it’s probably not best to sit around shooting the breeze with a lazy lipped, scabby Russian, so I give one more half hearted look at the Katana dagger thingy and say “maybe I should buy that too” but then I say “nah” pick my gun up off the table and walk away.

      And just like that, I own a pump-action, Winchester Model 1300, 8 shot, 12 gauge,shotgun. It’s ugly and short and black and mean looking. It has no shoulder stock and it’s sawed off to the eighteen inch legal limit.

It’s form reveals it’s function. To kill. People. Period. It’s often referred to as a riot gun and I like the sound of that. Riot Gun.   If there is ever a riot, you just watch out, buddy, ‘Cause I got my riot gun. I almost wish there would be a riot, because then, I could use my riot gun.  One would not use a Deer rifle in such a case, in fact, that would be ludicrous.  Unless of course, the deer were the ones rioting, in which case, it’s a grey area, at best.

I am walking around the rest of the gun show casually, acting like I by guns every day. I keep a cool look on my face, fighting the urge to scamper off like a kid at Christmas who has been dreaming about a specific thing all year and finally he opens his present and cares for nothing else.

It’s odd, unnatural even, to carry a gun around in a closed down strip mall. Even with herds of camo’ed up good ole’ boys strapped tight and armed to the teeth with Soviet era surplus, it still feels odd. The fact that the gun is so short doesn’t help. I try to hold it in a Nutcracker/ drill squad manner, but it’s too short and awkward, and when I carry it like that I just end up pointing it towards my head.  I am overly careful not to point it at anyone else though, I mean, for the love of god, I don’t want to look like an amateur in front of the sweaty guy with Coke bottle glasses who is selling Nazi paraphernalia.

Two booths down, I see the same gun. On sale at $175.

“I’ve seen enough.” I say to my girlfriend. “Let’s go, I’m bored.”

Six months have passed and I haven’t loaded my gun. I haven’t even bought ammunition yet when my friend, Durward, invites me to go out to a gun range with him. Durward grew up around guns. He learned to shoot before he learned to drive a car. He is so country, that his dad’s name is John Wayne. No shit. John Wayne.

We arrive early at the gun range, an out door field in the middle of the woods just off the freeway service road. Through the morning fog we walk past five young hunters all in camo. They are getting ready for deer season and all sit in an identical line firing their tiny .22’s with intense concentration. The sound is quiet. Not what you would expect. The small .22 shells only make a small “pop”, like someone cracking a whip.

We get down to the “shotgun range”, which is a part of the field at the end of the firing line with a sad rusted oil barrel for a target. The oil barrel has taken one too many hits and is now mostly composed of rust and holes.

“Yer up first” Durward says.

I load the 12 gauge slowly. The thick shells click into place. What for six months has been a hollow piece of metal suddenly feels much heavier now. I am killing time as much as being methodical. It’s a beast after all. 

“Allright, I’m doing it.” I say as I point the gun down range.

I hold on tight. This is the infamous 12 gauge. As little boys, we grew up with the urban legend of the grandmother who fires a 12 gauge and the recoil breaks her arm or the gun flies up and hits her in the head and kills her. And now this thing is I my hand.

There is no stock so I hold it by the pistol grip at waist level. I turn my head and close my eyes. I squeeze the trigger. My heart is racing. Everything goes silent. I squeeze and squeeze and nothing happens. What’s taking so long? Is the safety o…?

…and then the world explodes.  The sound is so loud it overloads my left ear and it knocks me off balance for a second. My left ear is numb and the sonic boom is still echoing thorough the hills when I open my eyes to see the 5 rednecks looking at me in annoyance. I don’t even realize I’ve pulled the trigger.

If my mighty riot gun did any damage to the already overly perforated oil drum, I can’t tell.

It takes 3 pounds of pressure to pull the trigger of that shotgun. Three pounds of pressure and you just took someone’s life away. Three pounds of pressure and the world explodes. On the car ride home, it’s the only thought that keeps racing through my mind. It was so easy. Three pounds of pressure and instead of a rusted oil barrel it could have been a human being. Three pounds of pressure to take someone’s life away. The remainder of it’s life with me, the pump-action, Winchester Model 1300, 8 shot, 12 gauge,shotgun sits in the back of my closet. I never shoot it again.