GIVE ME THE GUN, A COLLECTION

GIVE ME THE GUN. A COLLECTION BY MATTTHEW LUCAS BECKETT THE RIGHT TO BARE BRAINS SHALL NOT BE INFRINGED The mood was contentious and extremely tense as the vote began. At first, sensible Democrats were hopeful. “Surely, just requiring people purchasing a gun at a Gun Show to go through the same background checks as a gun store purchaser is something everyone could agree to. The only people that would adversely effect are criminals and the mentally unstable, whom everyone agrees should not have guns.” But, as the votes began to come in from The Republican side of the isle, it became clear the The Nutty Rebellious Anarchists Official Campaign of LIES, DECEPTION AND FACT MANIPULATION had had an effect. Several referred to the rumored registry as they cast their neigh votes, even though the text of the actual bill specifically banned such a registry, as several Sensible Democrats had tried to get through their Republican Colleagues solid granite skulls. Eventually, when it became clear that the Republican filibuster could not be broken, the Democratic Majority Leader called for an end to the voting, knowing that if it went all the way, the bill could not be brought up again, while this way it could. “So, to the mentally ill and those with criminal histories, we say, just go to the gun shows and you can get whatever you want,” the majority whip muttered under her breath as they all filed out of The Senate Chamber. “We did it,” Senator Rob Armory raved like the lunatic that he is on TV. that night. “We stopped the government from taking away every Americans' God Given Second Amendment Right to own any gun or guns they want.” People who had lost loved ones to gun violence turned their TVs off after that. A few days later, at the Phoenix Gun Show, a man with a wild look in his eyes walked up to a dealer. “Hello, I need to buy a gun,” he said. “What kind of gun would you like?” the dealer asked, looking not the least bit concerned at the man's mad looking eyes. “Something powerful,” said the man. “I just got out of Prison, and there are government agents and aliens trying to get into my home and read my mind twenty-four-seven.” “How about an M16 with an expanded clip,” the dealer offered. “That would be great,” the man said, looking wildly around. “And hurry, they're coming to get me right now.” He opened his wallet and pulled out three one-hundred dollar bills. The dealer took the money. “What were you in prison for?” he asked conversationally. “Murder and armed robbery,” the man answered without skipping a beat. “Did you do it?” the dealer asked, taking the requested gun out of its glass case. “Yes,” the man replied. “OK, here you go MR...?” “I'd rather not say, as I am number one on The F.B.I.'s, C.I.A.s and Interpol's most wanted lists,” the man replied, looking nervous. “Very well, here you go, Sir,” said the dealer,handing him the requested gun. The man took it and then ran from the show room without further comment. The next day at The Capital, Rob Armory and others were still basking in their recent victory. “I love seeing Democrats cry,” he said. “'Oh, those poor children, and if. . .'” he did a mock sniff. “'If he'd had to go through a back ground check..oh, no,, wait, it was his mother's gun. Still, if there were background checks at gun shows, we could prevent,oh, woe is us, some tragedies.' When all they really want is to control every aspect of our lives.” He heard a click and looked up to see the man, pointing his new gun straight at him. “You've been screwing my wife,” the man said. “That's why she left me. And you're the one whose been sending government and alien probes into my home and even into my mind. Prepare to die.” Without another word and before anyone could act, the man emptied a whole cartridge into Senator Rob Armory's head, and when Emergency personnel arrived, wrestled the man to the ground and took him away, there was no point in even calling an ambulance. WHEN GUNS GO THE WAY OF THE DINASAURS. “And with President Yolanda Sandleson's Signature, The Official 'Save Our Children From Gun Violence' Bill becomes The Law of The Land,” said The White House correspondent without emotion. But Fred Gunslinger couldn't keep the emotion from his voice. “They're creating a National Gun Registry and next they'll be rounding them up and taking them away.” “Only from Criminals,” said Sam, his Boy-Friend. “Law abiding citizens like us will not have a problem.” Fred snorted. “I love you, Sam, but sometimes, Man are you naive.” Sam said nothing, for this was not the first time his lover had made such an accusation. “Twenty-Nine Murderers caught in New York City thanks to the new Registry,” a different Reporter said a few days later. “Some are still against The Registry, but President Sandleson says that the number of now solved murders is proof both that it is working and that it was the right thing to do.” “Well,” said Fred as he and Sam listened to the news while eating at Grape Fruit Heaven and Burgers on Fire. “That is good, I'll agree. But I still think that this Registry is both unconstitutional and could lead to a seizing of legitimately owned guns.” Sam sat for a long moment without speaking, then, finally he said. “Don't look around, but you know who is standing in the door, pointing her legal gun right at you.” You-Know-Who was Sam's one time Girl-Friend, Marge, who had never totally accepted that Sam didn't want to be with her any more even though they had been together all through High School because Sam didn't want to be with any woman any more. Before Fred could speak or even duck, she fired, and two seconds later Fred's brains splattered all over the table. Sam cried out in rage, sorrow and horror, then thankfully blacked out. When he was aware again, he lay in bed, and Fred was beside him. “You didn't think I wouldn't have taken some precautions, after last time, did you, Sammy Boy?” asked Fred when he saw Sam's stunned look. Then Sam knew, this was a dream. Fred hadn't called him 'Sammy Boy' in years. He woke for real, and Fred really was dead, but at least, he saw on the news, Marge had been arrested. But as he watched the news, he saw that while there were more gun violence arrests than there once wee, there also seemed to be a sharp up tick in gun violence overall. Every day the number of gun murders seemed to increase. Finally, President Sandleson went on the air again. “Due to the recent up tick in gun related violence, I am indefinitely suspending The Second Amendment. All Fire Arms will be confiscated and destroyed immediately. We know where you all are. I strongly encourage all citizens not to resist the armed police officers when they come to take your guns.” Sam groaned. He wasn't quite the Gun Nut that Fred had been, but he did like his hunting rifle. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Your guns please,” said an armed police officer. “Even your Civil War rifle.” “Now hold on,” said Sam. “That's historical, not functional. It's been in my family for. . .” The Police Officer whipped out a voice recorder. “Subject is resisting. Warrant already issued in case of this eventuality, now executing warrant.” The cop puled out her gun. “Are you arresting me?” asked Sam. “No,,” she replied. “Death warrants were issued in advance for anyone who resist. So, you will now die.,” Before Sam could react, the gun was at his temple, discharging and the world went black. THOSE THAT LIVE BY THE GUN “The only defense against a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun,,” said Bulethead Caliber Assaulrifle, President of The Nutty Revolutionary Anarchists on THE CONSERVATIVES RULE AND LIBERALS DROOL Television Network. “So, all you Good Guys out there, go out and buy all the guns you can, RIGHT NOW.” Charles switched off the television. “Well, I'm off to the gun store,” he told his wife, Hesla. “I'm coming too,” she said. “I might some time face a bad guy when you're not around.” “Fine,” said Charles. When they got to the gun store, however, the line was out the door, around the block, across the street and at least halfway down the next block. “Might as well get in it,” said Hesla Gunhand. Charles Gunhqnd nodded. Ten hours later they walked from the gun store, packing heat in a major way. Charles had an automatic assault rifle on both hips, a hunting rifle slung across his back and a fully loaded 200 caliber pistol in each hand. Hesla wore two 400 caliber pistols on each hip, four shot guns across her back and held one assault rifle in her left hand and two in her unusually large right hand. Others they passed on the street heading out of the various stores and those they passed still on their way in looked very envious. Suddenly, there was a cry behind them. Whirling, they saw a man lifting a bag from a woman standing by the open trunk of a car. Both instantly pointed all of their hand held guns at the man. “Drop the bag, Sir,” they both said. “There will be no stealing today. We're the good guys with the guns.” “Wait,”the man woman cried out. “We're. . .” Suddenly there was a click behind Charles and Hesla. “Drop the guns, both of you. You will not be robbing this couple. Not while this good guy has a gun.” Then there was a third set of clicks. “There will be no bad guys with guns doing any killing today. I'm the real good guy with a. . .” There was another click. “No bad guys will be doing any shooting today. The Good Guys with the guns are here to save the day.” There was a one more set of five clicks. “All of you bad guys with guns stand down, or The Real Good Guys with Guns, us, will. . .” Suddenly, the woman that had been holding the bag swooned and the man took a step towards her. Charles and Hesla shot, and then everyone was shooting. The four other sets of clicks first, but then everyone in the crowd that had bought their guns already and those that had brought their weapons from home. When the police arrived a short time later, they found everyone in the crowd lying dead, including Charles and Hesla and the man and woman, whose IDs revealed they had been husband and wife and that the bag contained heavy groceries, which he had presumably been trying to help her with. ARM EVERY TEACHER Following the latest school shooting, in a small mid western town, there was once again much talk of Gun Control. “No,” said Cartridge Bulletbrain, Head of The Nut case Rebellious Anarchists, of which I was a proud, card carrying member. “What we should do is arm every teacher. If there had been one teacher with a gun in that school, that madman could not have done all of that killing.” “That's right,” I said. “Give us the ability to protect our charges, and we'll do it.” To my astonished delight, this correct view of things actually prevailed. Two weeks after the incident, every teacher at my school had a concealed carry permit, and everyone did. So, when I see a group of five masked people charge through the metal detectors, weapons emerging and starting to blaze, I think we are ready. I pull out my colt-45 and start shooting at them. They return fire and soon our bullets are flying all over. Doors burst open, teachers emerging with their guns drawn and blazing, children crying, screaming, shouting and everyone running every which way. I scream in anguish as I see one of my bullets hit a child. “Get out of the way, children,” I cry at the top of my lungs. A bullet grazes my ear from behind, and I whirl to see if one of the intruders has made it past me, but there are so many guns blazing and bullets flying now, it is impossible to tell who is shooting at who. “Allen,” scrams a colleague as she runs past my ear. “Get the children out of here, now! This is a blood bath.” I start trying to round up children even as I continue shooting, I hope at the intruders, although they seem to be everywhere now. I scream as all around me children I have known all of their school age lives and colleagues I have known for many years fall. I start rushing the remaining children I can gather up towards the door, when I feel something crash into and crush the back of my skull and my world shatters. THE PLICE REPORT FROM JOHN WAYNE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL: 450 ELEMENTARY AGE STUDENTS, 20 FACULTY MEMBERS, 1 PRINCIPLE, 5 INTRUDERS. ALL 476 ACCOUNTED FOR. ALL 476 DEAD. SECONDS FOR EVERYONE' “There should be no restrictions at all on who can buy guns,” said Colt Bonehead Oozy, The Head of The Nut Case Rebellious Anarchists on TV. after the latest shooting. “Everyone should have the right to buy a gun. The Second Amendment does not say “except children, except the mentally ill or except those with criminal backgrounds” it says “The Right of The People To Keep And Bare Arms Shall Not Be Infringed” Period. Therefore, all such restrictions should be done away with.” “At least,” I cried. “I can get a gun.” I'd spent the better part of my fifteen years in Juvenile Detention, mostly due to my schizophrenia and Multiple Personalities, Freddie, in particular, was quite violent, but I still ought to be able to target shoot if I want to. “Not so fast, Norman,”said my ,mother. “His opinion does not make it policy.” She was technically right, of course, but since both The Executive and The Legislative Branches of The Federal Government were firmly in the control of Republicans, and everyone knew that the top People of The Republican Party all but slept with Colt Oozy, I knew it was only a matter of time. To my parents horror, I was right. “Don't worry,” I told my parents as we watched President Fire Arm Gun Brain sign The Restoration of The Second Amendment Bill into law. “I won't shoot you.” “You won't, Norman,” said my father. “But what about Freddie. And what about people you don't like.” “I'll just use it for target shooting, I promise,” I said. “And only I will handle it. When I feel someone else, particularly Freddie, coming, I'll empty it and lock it up.” I don't think they believed me, but as I had been saving my money for years and there was a gun store a block away, there was nothing they could do. “I'd like a '38 Special, please,,” I said, walking up to the desk. “That's expensive, kid,” said the clerk. “You look a bit young to write a check, and I don't see any parents with you, so. . .” I pulled out my wallet. “Will five hundred cash do?” I asked, handing him five crisp one-hundred dollar bills. “They're real, you can check,” I said, sensing his next objection. “I've been saving for ten years.” Five minutes later I was headed for the door with my new gun. “So,” said a mocking voice I knew and hated all too well. “Retard Boy has a gun now?” I felt Freddie starting to come up, and fought to keep him down. “Yes, Charlton Wayne, and unless you want to have worse mental health than me, I suggest you keep your big mouth shut.” He starts to laugh, which is the one thing that I was really hoping he would not do. “Nobody laughs at Norman,,” I now Freddie say in my own voice, causing everyone else to back away. Before Wayne Charlton can respond, I load my new gun, put it right to his chest, look right into his wide and frightened and tear filled eyes, smile, and pull the trigger. Then I leave and Norman walks home and shoots himself in the head, not wanting to go to jail, and so we all eleven die. HOW MANY MUST DIE? I couldn't believe it. I finally got a gun. I'd wanted one all my life of course, but. . . “Sir, you were diagnosed with multiple personalities and as schizophrenic when you were two, and you've been in and out of Prison since you were fifteen. This is a Respectable, Responsible, Law Abiding Gun Store that would lose its reputation as such if we sold someone like you a gun. . .” was all I heard at every store. “But I just want to target shoot and hunt deer and pheasants,” I protested again and again. “That's what your current, peaceful personality says,” they would always reply. “But what about your more violent personalities. And your other. . .issue?” I never had an answer for any of these, for three of my personalities were rather violent, one of them extremely so. But I could usually tell when she was coming and so would make sure the gun was empty and the ammo put away before she got there. However, I'd tried to explain this the first few times and gotten nowhere, so I did not even attempt it anymore. So, of course, I was thrilled when I heard about the so-called “Gun Show Loophole” and then found out that there was a gun show coming to town a few days later. “If I still lived with my parents,” I told the elephant I shared my apartment with. “They wouldn't let me go, but since I'm on my own now, I can.” “Go for it, Jim,” he said. So, of course, I did. “A six shooter is fine,” I said. “I just want to target shoot and hunt deer and pheasants.” “If that's all,” he said, handing me the gun and taking my money. “Why don't you already have one?” I hesitate, making sure in my mind that the transaction is complete, then answer. “Because this is the first Local Gun Show since I got my own place and gun stores won't sell to someone with schizophrenia, twelve personalities, three of which are quite violent, and a criminal record going back more than half my life. But there are no checks at gun shows.” Before he can respond, I dash off and am out the door with my loaded six shooter and one spare clip I grabbed as I was walking out before anyone has a chance to stop me. I see a heard of deer walking down the street, but there are people too, so I keep my hand in check and engage my feet to follow them. As they and I alone turn onto a side street, the biggest one, walking at the back, suddenly turns around and faces me. “Why are you following us?” he says in a vaguely familiar voice. For a moment I stop, trying to place the voice. Then, suddenly, I know. The man who first gave me shock therapy. “DR. Marshhead!” I cry, raising my gun as the deer facade falls away to reveal my arch nemesis, the man I swore at thirteen I would some day repay for that electricity. “Prepare to pay for your crimes.” “Wait,” he cries. “What are you talking about young man, I'm not a doctor and I've never seen you before in my life.” “Lies,” I scream, and pull the trigger. As he falls, the horse beside him screams and runs at me, so I shoot her too. I hear one of the younger zebras trying to contact the alien mother ship with his beeper device, so I shoot him too. An older young lioness jumps at me, so I shoot her as well. I ready my second clip, knowing I will need it soon as a monkey and a crocodile from the group run at me. After killing them, I reload, then shoot the four charging unicorns. I empty my last two bullets into the two aliens that are about to attack me. That only leaves the crying and terrified looking little boy. “Better strangle him, or he could be a witness,” says a familiar voice in my head. “But they were just deer, lions, crocodile, monkeys, unicorns and aliens,” I tell it aloud. “Why would he care about them?” He looks up, and though the tears still run down and streak it, his face is flushed with anger. “They were my family, you Nut Job. My name is Charles Moses Winchester. Memorize my name and my face. Someday, when I'm older, bigger and stronger, they will be the lat thing you ever see and hear in this life.” Before I can respond, I hear sirens all around me, and then there are police everywhere. One of them picks up the child and rushes him off. “Drop the weapon Sir,” I hear from all directions at once. “It's empty, see,” I hold it up and put my finger to the trigger to show them. My one sane self points out too late that this is a mistake, for they open fire immediately and then all of my worlds collapse. FIRE AT WILL “The Second Amendment is Sacred,” declared Nutcase Rebellious Anarchist, head of The Organization that bore his name. “All of the rest of The Constitution and our Nation's other laws were made by men. But: 'The Right To Bear Arms' came directly from God Himself. So no one may question it in any way.” “You tell 'em Nutcase,” shouted Firehand Triggerfinger at the figure on the bar's TV.. “That's what we need in this country, more people to understand that it is a GOD GIVEN RIGHT, to be able to buy and carry any weapon we want.” “But without The First Amendment,” his sister's boy-friend Mark pointed out. “You wouldn't be able to express that view if the people currently in charge disagreed with you, so it is at least as if not more import. . .” Suddenly, Mark's eyes went wide as Firehhand put a revolver to his large belly and pulled the trigger. “The Second Amendment is all that matters,” declared Fiehand as he kicked Mark's body out of his way and left the bar. “Would you sign this petition for American born Latinos' Right to Vote,” a woman asked him as she approached him right outside the bar. “No,”” Firehand said. He pulled out his revolver and shot her in the face. “There is only one Right that matters. The Right to Keep and Bear Arms.” As he walked down the street, he saw a large crowd outside the new abortion clinic. There were people chanting “Right to Life” others telling them to be quiet, and some of them shouting back “Right To Protest.” “Life and Protest are not Rights that matter either,” said Firehand. He emptied his revolver into the crowd and many fell. The rest scattered. He spat. “All these irrelevant Rights. Only one Right matters.” “Order in the Court, order in the court,” he heard to his left. Looking in, he saw a boy on the witness stand. He stopped to listen in as an attorney finished asking the boy a question. The boy hesitated, then said. “Your Honor, Members of The Jury and attorneys, although I am under eighteen, I believe that I still have Constitutional Rights. Therefore, I invoke my fifth Amendment Right against self-incrimina . . .” The boy stopped as Firehand's bullet shattered his head. “Only one Right matters,” said Firehand, then walked on. “Well, what's going on here,” he said, passing a boarded up building with a lot of women and minorities gathered around it. “The company is cheating us,” one of them said. “So we are going on Strike until they grant us Equal Protection under The Law, which we have a Right. . .” The speaker's eyes went wide as Firehand's bullet connected with her temple. “There is only one Right that matters, The Right To Keep and Bear Arms.” “Hold on there son,” said a burly Police Officer appearing out of nowhere. “That doesn't mean you can just walk down the street shooting anyone who annoys you. I'll take that gun.” “NO ONE IS TAKING AWAY MY SECOND AMENDMENT RIGHTS,” shouted Fireand, shooting the police officer on the spot. “MY gun is MINE, AS GOD INTENDED, and that is all that matters.” Then he kissed his gun and walked home. THE GUN RUN, “I hope not to see you here again, Fred,” said the guard, I forget his name, as he signed my release papers. We both knew he would, of course. I had been in and out of prison for forty years, since I was ten years old. Obviously, it had been JV back then. I tried not to break the law, but for a paranoid, delusional, schizophrenic, bipolar, multiple personalities, individual, all of which I had been diagnosed with when I was seven, along with every other psychological disorder, it was difficult if not impossible to avoid breaking the law. About the only thing I hadn't done was armed robbery, since with my criminal and mental health history, I was on the list of DO NOT SELL TOS even for private dealers at gun shows, and no one would even sell me one out of their driveway, and believe me, I had tried all of the above. Two days after my latest release, though, I am watching the evening news when “this just in, Hothead Trigger Finger's Republican Majority in The House has just followed the Republican controlled Senate in voting to override President Coolhead's veto of bill grae36,which repeals every gun restricting law ever passed, effective immediately. “From now on, if you have money, you can get whatever you want, even military grade weapons” The Speaker of The House said just after the final vote. “No more background checks or any of that other nonsense. . .” I don't hear the rest, for there are fireworks going off inside my head and stomach. “All it takes is money” I muse to myself. Well, I have plenty of that. My parents had left me quite a trust, since they knew that I would never be able to hold down a typical job. Of course, I had always had a trustee who administered my financial arrangements, but since this most recent time I had gone to prison for murdering her and of course a new one could not be assigned during the five and a half years that followed, I had used a revolver, after all, and the Republican judge had not wanted to be too hard on a fellow gun enthusiast. So, Monday morning, I go to my bank and clear my account before anyone gets any the wiser about it. Then I go to the nearest gun store. “How may I help you, sir?” asks the clerk. “I want one-hundred m-16s, and enough ammo to refill each of them twelve times,” I reply. “That will cost. . .” he begins, then sees the bill I am holding. “Would a one-hundred thousand dollar bill cover it?” I ask. He nods and the exchange happens. Once I have the guns, however, I shoot him point blank in the forehead and so keep my money as well. Then I walk down the street, randomly shooting people, sometimes to kill and sometimes just to maim. But then, someone shoots a shoulder fired missile back at me. “I need one of those,” I say aloud. After a long search, I find a military grade weapons store and walk in. “I want two-hundred shoulder fired missiles, five-hundred rocket propelled grenades and one-thousand rocket launchers,” I say before he can even ask. Before his next question, I dangle a one million dollar bill in front of him, and the words die on his lips. Once I have what I wanted, so does he. When I leave the store, I mount one of my new treasures on my shoulders and shoot someone clear to oblivion before they can shoot me with their alien laser beam. Then I shoot a charging elephant that moments before had been in the guise of a person. “You shot my mother,” cried a boy of not more than ten. He points a rocket propelled grenade at me. “Prepare to d. . .” Suddenly, he stops and cries out as one of my grenades hits him. Then I shoot one of my nuclear missiles into a crowd of gaping spectators, which includes some alien and government spies that have been watching me fir years. Suddenly, I hear a rocket launcher go off behind me. I turn just in time to dodge it and throw one from my shoulder to retaliate. Then another comes at me, and I reply with equal force. Another shot, and I shoot back. Then I fire at someone trying to control my mind, and the person standing beside them shoots back. Something whistles past my ear from behind, and I throw a grenade and empty one cartridge of my m-16b in that general direction. And suddenly, everyone on the street is shooting, at me or at each other, and I am throwing everything in my considerable arsenal in all directions, by means of retaliation or preemption. Projectiles from every fire arm known to man fly in all directions, and soon the air is full of every kind of ammunition there is and people's death cries and the scrams of the injured and dying. I hear another shot whiz past my ear from behind, whirl and shoot the boy who fired it. Suddenly, I feel a great weight smash into my spinal cord, cry out and then I also die. THE RIGHT WORDSS AT LAST: If Republicans and their bcd mates in The Nut Case Rebellious Anarchists get what they really want, all gun restrictions at all abolished for everyone, even those with criminal and/or mental illness histories, this story is mere child's play compared to what will actually happen, so let us make sure that they never get that chance.