Nobody seems too impressed with my impromptu speechifying. In fact, it seems everybody starts complaining, accusing me of being a communist, a socialist, and best of all: “a damn Obamacan!” There is no getting through to these people. Even Ted Newscent says to me out the corner of his mouth, “You’re extremely weird.”
However, two people are pretty much impressed. Submissivania Whapp puts her hand on my arm for an acute moment & says, “You’re cute, Raw.” This of course elevates the event, in my estimation, up into the stars some where.
The other person upon which my most logical interpretation of the 2nd Amendment apparently makes an impression, is one of the members of the Iron Brotherhood. This motorcycle gang, you may recall despite my not mentioning it earlier in this narrative, is made up predominately of off-duty Prescott police officers. There at the bar, one gang member says to another, “You know he’s right.”
Then his compadre in black leather, slurping a beer & nudging the first feller’s elbow, replies, “No. He’s wrong.”
Sure enough, I guess they are somewhat inebriated. They begin pushing each other & complaining about everything under the wooden eagle ’til louder & louder these two bikers become. Then one threatens the other. In consequence, the other grabs hold of the one’s wrist, the hand of which is holding a sizable handgun conglomerate with two barrels and a scope. As they wrestle about, and incidentally draw everybody’s attention with these antics, the gun goes off. The blast is hard on the ears not to mention ~ nerves. Surprisingly no one else pulls any triggers. However, a real unexpected, in my opinion downright miraculous, phenomena occurs because of this shot, which is at the floor. I have no idea at the moment what has occurred. It takes me some time later to figure this out. There’s a knothole down there on the floor through which the two flying bullets, issued forth from the double-barreled firearm, pass into the cellar. And it’s down there where the fireworks ironically occur.
Everybody is stunned. Everybody glances back n’ forth at one another with questioning grimaces on their bewildered faces. No other guns go off. But bullets are heard flying all over the place below the floor. It sounds like the Fourth of July down there.
“Dang blast eternity!” fumes Peeintheair, the right side of his body tremendously a jerk, and with a long barreled derringer in a hand gone spastic that he’s trying to keep aimed at Newscent. He further fumes, “There goes our ammo dump!”
Wayne Peeintheair, we all know, is a top honcho of the National Rifle Association (NRA). So whose ammo dump he’s mentioning here is not too hard to figure out. However, at this time all I’m figuring is that this place is getting awful dangerous. And everybody else is figuring the same thing without firing one shot from their AR-15 conglomerations, some of which have up to three barrels ~ most of which are pointing in the generalized direction of me! Well, not to mention Submissivania Whapp & Ted Newscent, standing to either side of yours truly. All these firearms are pointed more or less at these two compatriots of mine too. But with the fireworks going on below, some guns are disappearing into briefcases & knapsacks on the bar. And some fellers, hoisting their belongings, are casually sauntering out of the Bird Cage Saloon, the floor of which, made of hard thick wood, is splintering & exploding!
~ by Rawclyde!