I’ve never been a fan of guns. In fact, to say I downright hate them wouldn’t be much of a stretch. They scare me.
My dad wasn’t a gun guy and my mom certainly wasn’t, so I didn’t grow up in a gun house. Until my brother-in-law became a state trooper, I’d never had contact with one. And then, feeling the weight of the thing made me like them even less. Why, I don’t know. I guess it made them seem even more menacing. What can I say. There’s rarely logic in my fears.
I have a friend who is a gun guy. That might be an understatement. He loves him some guns. Big guns, little guns, new guns, old guns — he’s got them all. He showed me the collection once. It took a while.
I mentioned I’d never shot a gun. It might be cool, I said, but I’m a big ole chicken.
It seems he skipped over the last part of that sentence and decided to surprise me with a trip to the shooting range. I was apprehensive, to say the least. Some of the fear subsided, though, when he showed me the zombie targets he bought for the occasion.
While he’s unpacking his gun bag, someone was letting off what sounded like a bazooka from behind the hill. I was trying to play it cool, but I’m pretty sure my shuddering with each boom gave me away.
Being a gun guy, he was prepared for these loud noises and handed me some huge headphones, which proved to be my instant best friend.
After I regained my composure, I told the guys in the shelter with us that this was my first time and apologized in advance for whatever was about to happen.