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81_ym_guncollector_afknott.jpg
Art by A. F. Knott 2020

Never Fuck with a Gun Collector

by Kenneth James Crist

 

So, when I stepped outta the bathroom, after taking a hefty dump, and realized there were two guys in my family room, I jumped back quickly and went for my guns. Which of course were not there. Of course. Not lying atop the dresser in their usual places. A Smith & Wesson Shield in .40 caliber and a Glock model 36 in .45. Gone. Well, shit. From the family room, I could hear one guy say, “Was that him? Is he out?” Yeah, that’s “him,” fucker. I peeked behind my pillow and looked at the headboard. Yup, they missed the Taurus P89, five-shot revolver. .38 Special, not my fave, but it would hafta do. I’m still in my undershorts when I step out and level the Taurus. Most accurate short-barreled gun I’ve ever owned. Actually patterns well at seven yards. Guy on the left is a big ugly fuck, three-day beard, bad teeth, meth-head, I would imagine. “Hey, put it down, man,” he says, “got yer wife right here. You might hit her, man, put it down.” And he’s right. About her being there, not about the rest of it. She’s there, all right. Why she thinks, at her age, she can get away with baby-doll pajamas, is beyond me. She’s scared. And she should be. She’s in a bad position. I can see her nipples through the sheer material of the top, and she’s actually excited enough, they’re hard. Excited by fear. Well, okay, I guess that works. These idiots watch too much bullshit TV. I don’t take any time to think about what’s about to go down. I’ve done all the thinking already. I’ve run these kinds of scenarios in my mind thousands of times. And the guy thinks I’m not gonna shoot because I might miss. Well, tell ya what, Slick, I can’t dribble a basketball or do algebra, or carry a tune worth a shit, but I don’t miss. I fire one for effect, and by the time he finishes the word, “down”, the bullet is on the way. It takes him just above his left eye, and he’s all done. I fire another and it misses him, as he’s already falling. Other guy is smaller, but he doesn’t have a woman to hide behind. My Glock is in his hand, but he never even raises it. Too busy gaping at his buddy, whose brains are sprayed on the popcorn ceiling and leaking onto my carpet. I give him the last three shots, and that’s that. Stupid bastards. Think you won’t shoot because yer old lady’s in the way. Fuck. What they don’t understand, is that when you’ve been married long enough, maybe both of you have just been looking for an excuse to pick up a gun and take a shot at the other one, anyway. And so here I sit on the front porch, sipping a Corona Extra and waiting for the sirens. With three dead people in the house. Yeah, ya don’t get a chance like that but maybe once. I wasn’t about to pass it up, either. Put that round right through that hard left nipple. It’s gonna be a long night. And the neighbors are gonna shit. And the homeowner’s association is gonna take a dim view of this, too. Probably gonna hafta move. Fuck. I hate moving . . . all I can do now is hope for a ruling of justifiable on two, and accidental on one, and I’m home free . . . nipples for aimpoints . . . ain’t that a pisser. . .

 

Kenneth James Crist is Editor Emeritus of Black Petals Magazine and is on staff at Yellow Mama ezine. He has been a published writer since 1998, having had almost two hundred short stories and poems in venues ranging from Skin and Bones and The Edge-Tales of Suspense to Kudzu Monthly. He is particularly fond of supernatural biker stories. He reads everything he can get his hands on, not just in horror or sci-fi, but in mystery, hardboiled, biographies, westerns and adventure tales. He retired from the Wichita, Kansas police department in 1992 and from the security department at Wesley Medical Center in Wichita in 2016. Now 74, he is an avid motorcyclist and handgun shooter. He is active in the American Legion Riders and the Patriot Guard, helping to honor and look after our military. He is also a volunteer driver for the American Red Cross, Midway Kansas Chapter. He is the owner of Fossil Publications, a desktop publishing venture that seems incapable of making any money at all. On June the ninth, 2018, he did his first (and last) parachute jump and crossed that shit off his bucket list.







A. F. Knott is a self-taught collage artist focused on book layout and book cover design as well networking in conjunction with Hekate Publishing, one of its missions, bringing together artist and writer. Sometimes seen selling in New York City's Union Square Park. Work can be found on 


flickr.com/photos/afknott/ Any exchange of ideas welcome: anthony_knott@hekatepublishing.com





 


In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2020