Strapped.

Strapped.

Strapped to the max. Enough fire power to blast a hole in this joint. Barrels blazing. Ready for action.

Strapped. But that’s not always a good thing. All the ammo in the world can’t always prepare you for the unexpected outcome. The buildings on fire. Your firearm can’t help with that little problem. They’ve fit you with a pair of cement feet. As you descend to your watery grave, where is the use of a firearm? Shooting fish won’t free you and wasting ammo isn’t going to help anyone in the end. Strapped when you’re outgunned seems as useful as a life jacket at Niagara Falls. Certainly won’t keep you afloat. But there’s always the slim chance you will survive.

Card carrying member of the NRA? That won’t do you a damn bit of good in the field. Gun licenses and permits? No one cares if you’re allowed to carry the gun. The most important part is whether you know how to use it. In a pinch, the skill of a weapon is what will stand between you and death. Whether you can pull the trigger faster than the other guy is all that matters. My case and point, tonight I find myself outdrawing an adversary in the back room of a dive bar. He’s outarmed me. But my skill with the pistol is better. I can shoot the flea off a dog’s back without him flinching. Point? I never miss. That foolish bloke may have been strapped, but he lacked the grace and expertise of a true marksmen. He may have got off two shots, but he never came close.

Two pistol tango. Kick down the locked doors and proceed tearing through a bar room full of amateurs. I can pick them apart without effort. It doesn’t make me feel any better. My menacing intent is wasted on sheer unprofessionalism. Bartender with a sawed off shotgun makes two holes in the door, yet never grazes my body. Down went the army of steroids holding up the pool table. Never needing more than two guns at any moment to make my way through the crowd. Thugs and sleazy barflies all step up for a turn to dance. In the end it’s just me and the two guns sliding across the floor to meet with the final target. Back door swings wide. Hello, Charlie?

Quick departure ensures a clean getaway in most cases. Not tonight. Rear entrance is guarded. Something I’d overlooked before walking into this endeavor. Pistol securely fastened in its holster as I exit in a roar. As soon as my ears identify the clicks of the gun, I knew it was over with. Bullet rips through my chest quicker than the sound escapes the chamber. Skill should have prepared me for this, but I didn’t see it coming. Falling face first and rotating back I can see the man who deals my death. Puddle of water absorbs my blood as the bastard walks up and stands over me. Asshole wants to watch me die. Sadistic SOB getting off while I’m lying here bleeding. Left hand grips my pistol tightly to defend myself. Foot comes down crushing the fingers of my hand. Cracking. Breaking. No chance I can shoot that gun. This the way he wants it. Probability of him living is greater without my gun involved. Defenseless? Strapped to the end. Kick of boot. Shift of leg. Hot metal tears through the skull of my executioner. Steel accented toes of a shoe can hold quite the mystery. Hello, Charlie? So very sorry, but I came prepared.

Strapped. The term came from a Stephen King novel. I just like the way it sounds. So I’ve used it more than a few times now. Strapping it on – pulling it together. You know? This just seemed like the most appropriate use. Guns and death in a bar. Anyhow here’s the three for the day… enjoy? kisses. m.