Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Quote of the ugliest of things.
War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.
-John Stuart Mill, English economist & philosopher (1806 - 1873)
-John Stuart Mill, English economist & philosopher (1806 - 1873)
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
California steals from 9/11 victims
This is impossible.
This is unfathomable.
This just can't be true.
Who am I kidding?
This is expected.
This is unfathomable.
This just can't be true.
Who am I kidding?
This is expected.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Spyderco's Native knife line
I've written about the Native series before. They are the knives I've found most interesting in the Spyderco line.
The basic design started with the Manix, which featured a well-defined finger choil (between blade and grip), nice G10 grips, an acceptable but standard blade shape in acceptable 154cm steel, and funky ball bearing lock. The screws for disassembly were much appreciated.
Then they refined things with the Native, which featured a misshapen finger choil with uncomfortable sharp edges, the new spear point native style blade in excellent S30V steel, too-slick plastic grips, acceptable pocket clip, the standard strong lock, and aggressive jimping on the blade for your thumb. Rivets were used in this design, presumably to reduce cost. The Native was less expensive than the Manix when it came out, but has risen in value as people discovered the utility. This design actually returned to production after the next knife came out, and is currently available as a very high value low price EDC. It's hard to go wrong with this one.
Then the Native III which kept the overall blade shape and lock, but switched to VG-10 which is a bit too hard for my tastes. The partial serration was appreciated in this design because it left enough plain blade to use for detail work. You'll notice the choil returned to proper shape and gained higher sides to keep your finger safe and add grip. The jimping is reduced, just as grippy, and less visually disruptive to the design. Very well done. The biggest design addition here is the "design in the dark" grip which is significantly more ergonomic than the Native's flat sides. (detail of grip comparison here) The clip is also superior at both holding in place, and easily sliding off. When sliding on, the grip/clip interface tends to bind on your pocket. The blade shape is modified slightly to be wider, and fits with the lines of the knife beautifully. I would like to have one of these in plain blade, but they're hard to find at an acceptable price. This knife has been discontinued.
Next is the Native 4 which is more of a dress knife than a utility blade. The smooth carbon fiber grips look and feel beautiful, but are much too smooth. Notice the return of the Manix's lanyard loop for some reason. The blade design appears to be modified slightly with a dropped tip, still using VG-10. The choil is more elegantly swept back, but this only means less grip to me. Jimping is virtually non-existent. The blade is flat ground (blade body has no additional bevels from back to cutting bevel) which improves the looks somewhat, but reveals what we've already figured out; looks are beating utility on this design. The clip is now totally customizable (left, right, tip down, tip up), but not as good as the Native III's clip. Also notable is the addition of screws instead of rivets, meaning you can take down your Native for a detail cleaning finally. These additions all came at a price, the Native 4 was priced at about double the last two knives. (prices have reduced since release) This knife has been discontinued.
Finally, we come to the most recent evolution of the Native; the Spyderco Native 5. Immediately we can identify many desirable features. The blade shape has returned and retained the flat grind while switching to S35VN (supposedly similar to my preferred S30V). The clip is unfortunately still the new style, but can be set in any configuration. The choil seems to have compromised with the Native 3 and 4, and for some reason features internal jimping. Gladly, the screws remain to allow you to clean this caliber of knife. The G10 grips appear flat, and while better than the Native, aren't nearly as positive as the Native III. I vacillate on this, though. The wide grips of the 3 are great in your hand, but not so much in your pocket. I found myself carrying the Native more because it was less obtrusive in my pocket and was smoother entering and exiting my pocket. I suppose if I was holding the knife more than I was carrying it in my pocket, I'd prefer the 3's grips, but I carry far more than I use, so these G10 grips should be perfect.
While striking the right mix of utility and elegance, the Native 5 clocks in around $150, which makes this knife an extremely great value. The features and design have developed to the point of rivalry with knives over $200. This isn't the Spyderco throwaway you toss in a toolbox and forget about, this is your new Every Day Carry knife. Resting unobtrusively in your pocket, ready and sharp when called upon for utility tasks, sure of grip and totally controllable, prepared for years of reliable service.
This is an idea, a design, a knife worthy of carry.
The basic design started with the Manix, which featured a well-defined finger choil (between blade and grip), nice G10 grips, an acceptable but standard blade shape in acceptable 154cm steel, and funky ball bearing lock. The screws for disassembly were much appreciated.
Then they refined things with the Native, which featured a misshapen finger choil with uncomfortable sharp edges, the new spear point native style blade in excellent S30V steel, too-slick plastic grips, acceptable pocket clip, the standard strong lock, and aggressive jimping on the blade for your thumb. Rivets were used in this design, presumably to reduce cost. The Native was less expensive than the Manix when it came out, but has risen in value as people discovered the utility. This design actually returned to production after the next knife came out, and is currently available as a very high value low price EDC. It's hard to go wrong with this one.
While striking the right mix of utility and elegance, the Native 5 clocks in around $150, which makes this knife an extremely great value. The features and design have developed to the point of rivalry with knives over $200. This isn't the Spyderco throwaway you toss in a toolbox and forget about, this is your new Every Day Carry knife. Resting unobtrusively in your pocket, ready and sharp when called upon for utility tasks, sure of grip and totally controllable, prepared for years of reliable service.
This is an idea, a design, a knife worthy of carry.
The Next "Evolution" of Obama?
Lets just be honest and admit that it was super impressive how president Obama "came out" in support of gay marriage.
I remember it like it was yesterday... [wavy screen here]
He called a televised, joint session of congress, stood at the podium facing his dissenters in the room and in the world, and spoke his convictions clearly. He made an impassioned appeal to the equality of all people, as only he, our first black president, could make. He appealed to our better selves, and challenged us to support each other in the brotherhood of man, instead of finding petty differences to divide ourselves and isolate scapegoats. I particularly liked the part where he said he would make the issue of equality a cornerstone of his presidency, and indicated that he would send multiple recommendations for legislation to the congress for their vote, up or down. He wasn't just going to say words, he was going to take action, and make our politicians go on the record so future generations can look back and see how backward our world view once was.
It truly is a brave new world.
Oh no wait, he mumbled it in passing in an interview, and went home.
But that's alright, I guess. I mean, it was at least impressive to come out in support of gay marriage when public opinion is so against it!
Oh wait, U.S. Acceptance of Gay/Lesbian Relations Is the New Normal
To be honest though, when I first heard this announcement, I was confused. I had always figured most liberals support gay marriage, but traditionally, it gets voted down (with several prominent losses quite recently) leading to a schism between what people blurt to Gallup and what lever they pull behind the curtain. Either way, it was a divisive issue to take up on an election year. It was a very strange move that didn't make political sense to me.
But then I heard about Biden voicing his support for gay marriage and the praise heaped upon him by the LGBLT (lesbian, gay, bacon, lettuce, tomato) community.
Yes, if you ever question what this president is doing, just put yourself in his position and thin your skin so much you could suntan your liver. Then this move makes sense.
But enough of Obama's self-destructive, ham-fisted, poll chasing, lets talk about this exciting new study!
"Pro-Choice" Americans at Record-Low 41%
Gee that graph looks familiar...
So is this the next "evolution" of Obama?
Or do we have to wait until Biden stumbles into some perceived sleight?
Politics that change with the wind?
O brave new world!
I remember it like it was yesterday... [wavy screen here]
He called a televised, joint session of congress, stood at the podium facing his dissenters in the room and in the world, and spoke his convictions clearly. He made an impassioned appeal to the equality of all people, as only he, our first black president, could make. He appealed to our better selves, and challenged us to support each other in the brotherhood of man, instead of finding petty differences to divide ourselves and isolate scapegoats. I particularly liked the part where he said he would make the issue of equality a cornerstone of his presidency, and indicated that he would send multiple recommendations for legislation to the congress for their vote, up or down. He wasn't just going to say words, he was going to take action, and make our politicians go on the record so future generations can look back and see how backward our world view once was.
It truly is a brave new world.
Oh no wait, he mumbled it in passing in an interview, and went home.
But that's alright, I guess. I mean, it was at least impressive to come out in support of gay marriage when public opinion is so against it!
Oh wait, U.S. Acceptance of Gay/Lesbian Relations Is the New Normal
To be honest though, when I first heard this announcement, I was confused. I had always figured most liberals support gay marriage, but traditionally, it gets voted down (with several prominent losses quite recently) leading to a schism between what people blurt to Gallup and what lever they pull behind the curtain. Either way, it was a divisive issue to take up on an election year. It was a very strange move that didn't make political sense to me.
But then I heard about Biden voicing his support for gay marriage and the praise heaped upon him by the LGBLT (lesbian, gay, bacon, lettuce, tomato) community.
Yes, if you ever question what this president is doing, just put yourself in his position and thin your skin so much you could suntan your liver. Then this move makes sense.
But enough of Obama's self-destructive, ham-fisted, poll chasing, lets talk about this exciting new study!
"Pro-Choice" Americans at Record-Low 41%
Gee that graph looks familiar...
So is this the next "evolution" of Obama?
Or do we have to wait until Biden stumbles into some perceived sleight?
Politics that change with the wind?
O brave new world!
Friday, May 25, 2012
Quick info dump
Challenge the premise that the destructive path America's leaders have chosen originates from good intentions. Change the reason, and these actions make grim sense. If I wanted America to fail.
Bill Whittle explains why Han shot first, and why Hollywood must erase that fact.
The debt limit explained in terms of a small family. Funny, short, and accurate.
One of those xtranormal videos of an Atlas Shrugged conversation. Hank Rearden talks to his brother Philip. I really like listening to it.
A powerful reading from Atlas Shrugged, what happened to the Twentieth Century Motor Company?
A clot of over-privileged San Francisco children dressing in black and destroying private property while the police watch and do nothing. Get your blood boiling.
College students get pepper sprayed after trying to storm a Board of Trustees meeting. Great for a laugh. Especially when one of them yells "MEDIC!" like he's trying to put his buddy's guts back into his body.
Bill Whittle explains why love of theory is the root of all evil.
Not sure how you could have missed this one, but if you have, watch this now. It's pure gold. Adam Carolla explains the OWS Generation. He cuts right to the core of the issue; envy.
"Through the desolate summits swept raging intermittent gusts of the terrible arctic wind; whose cadences sometimes held vague suggestions of a wild and half-sentient musical piping, with notes extending over a wide range, and which for some subconscious mnemonic reason seemed to me disquieting and even dimly terrible." - H.P. Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness
Was reading this story before bed. I snickered at the idea that a horror story might make it difficult to sleep. Bad idea. Lovecraft is more than horror.
"Whenever I need to 'get away,' I just get away in my mind. I go to my imaginary spot, where the beach is perfect and the water is perfect and the weather is perfect. The only bad thing there are the flies. They're terrible!" -Jack Handey
Run Rabbit Junk
Bill Whittle explains why Han shot first, and why Hollywood must erase that fact.
The debt limit explained in terms of a small family. Funny, short, and accurate.
One of those xtranormal videos of an Atlas Shrugged conversation. Hank Rearden talks to his brother Philip. I really like listening to it.
A powerful reading from Atlas Shrugged, what happened to the Twentieth Century Motor Company?
A clot of over-privileged San Francisco children dressing in black and destroying private property while the police watch and do nothing. Get your blood boiling.
College students get pepper sprayed after trying to storm a Board of Trustees meeting. Great for a laugh. Especially when one of them yells "MEDIC!" like he's trying to put his buddy's guts back into his body.
Bill Whittle explains why love of theory is the root of all evil.
Not sure how you could have missed this one, but if you have, watch this now. It's pure gold. Adam Carolla explains the OWS Generation. He cuts right to the core of the issue; envy.
"Through the desolate summits swept raging intermittent gusts of the terrible arctic wind; whose cadences sometimes held vague suggestions of a wild and half-sentient musical piping, with notes extending over a wide range, and which for some subconscious mnemonic reason seemed to me disquieting and even dimly terrible." - H.P. Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness
Was reading this story before bed. I snickered at the idea that a horror story might make it difficult to sleep. Bad idea. Lovecraft is more than horror.
"Whenever I need to 'get away,' I just get away in my mind. I go to my imaginary spot, where the beach is perfect and the water is perfect and the weather is perfect. The only bad thing there are the flies. They're terrible!" -Jack Handey
Run Rabbit Junk
California Screamin'
I'm having difficulty starting this post.
It's not that I lack complaints about California, I have plenty of those, it's just that I'm... exhausted.
I can't muster the ire to castigate the state on the mathematical certainty of its financial (and social) insolvency. I can't squeeze another drop of passion from the turnip that is my love for this state to pummel the high speed train to nowhere. I can't find a single synapse willing to explain how the variety of leeches up and down the food chain drain everything that was great from this state. Worst of all, I can't even bring myself to contemplate how bad the fall will be.
They won. They wore me down. I just don't care anymore. California is theirs. They can have it with all its dysfunction.
I've put in notice at my good-paying job with advancement opportunities, we've paid out of our lease, and we've shipped out the second car. We're moving to Kentucky.
We're not the first to leave, nor will we be the last.
We've been talking about moving for some time, but had no commitment to any state in particular. Kentucky was under consideration because we have some family there, but to be honest, other states were higher in preference. Last Christmas we visited our family in Kentucky, as we have before, but when we landed in California upon our return I got an odd feeling. I thought about it as we disembarked and finally put my finger on it as we rode the escalator down to the baggage claim. I turned to my wife and said, "I think we're moving to Kentucky." She nodded knowingly and said, "I think so too." And that was that. We left our hearts in Kentucky.
Given this revelation, I immediately checked the gun laws in Kentucky, and found them quite to my liking. Many states that would come to mind when discussing freedom have quirky laws about certain things. Kentucky doesn't have any that I have found.
I want to shoot steel targets in my backyard with my suppressed AR. I want use my Microtech UTX-85 to clean my fingernails. I want to own land that costs hundreds of dollars in property taxes, not thousands. I want to be able to defend my family without getting a signed Notice of Intent to Murder form from my attacker. I want strangers to return the greeting offered in passing. I want to drive to work in under an hour. I want to be able to hunt without researching conflicting ordinances and property lines for 6 months. I want to run a business without fear of the state changing my business classification and demanding back taxes while putting a lien on my business and preemptively draining my bank account (and charging me $200 for the privilege).
I don't want to live in fear that some bureaucrat is going to knock on my door with a piece of paper that says an endangered beetle lives on my land, or I use my wood-burning fireplace too much, or someone thinks I'm abusing my kid, or the tool shed I built needs to be inspected, or my birdbath doesn't have a circulation pump and filter, or my sprinklers ran on Thursday instead of Wednesday, or my garden is too large, or my grass isn't green enough, or my dog looks like a "pitbull mix," or my cat has testicles, or my cigar smoke wafted too far, or my kid's lemonade stand doesn't have a permit, or the political sign on my lawn is too large, or the tree across the sidewalk needs to be trimmed, or I can't have a chicken coop, or my pool doesn't have a fence, or my bicycle doesn't have a license, or I can't have people over to my house to discuss religion or politics, or my car is parked on my property in an unapproved fashion. I could keep going, but why bother?
I want to be free. Or at least, more free.
This move is a big shake-up, and I'm going to take advantage by making some other changes. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do next, but it'll be different. I feel like working with my hands, or for myself, or in a different industry, or all of the above. I don't know what's going to happen, but I know we'll be fine so long as we continue to trust the guidance in our hearts.
Blogging will become more regular (even if I have nothing to blag aboot) as he California job expires. It became uninteresting and unchallenging, and it ruined me for much else by the time I got home. I wasn't kidding about the upward mobility though, by their standards I was a golden boy. They hate to see me leave.
Everyone we've told has been surprisingly supportive. Hints in their speech make me suspect many have heard a similar call but declined to answer.
The stress of this completely out-of-character move may have contributed to the California burnout at the beginning of this post. All my specific concerns have been quelled with trust in guidance, but some deeper part of my brain can't help but worry. It's stressing me out and I can't address it. We move in twenty-something days, and I wish the waiting was over.
I've been playing around with new ideas and practicing the skills I enjoy. I whetted my appetite for fabrication by spending some time at a machine shop working on a project I've enjoyed planning. It's incomplete, but I'm cutting metal and learning fast. Once I get the prototype finalized, I'll toss it up on kickstarter. I think people will want one... or two.
I'm trying to be more productive with the things I like doing. Writing is one of them, so if I'm sticking to my plan, this blog should start getting busy again. Feel free to hold me to it.
I suppose that's it for now. It's terribly late for the morning I have, but I don't care because I finished this post just like I told myself I was going to.
This is the start of something great. Glad you're along for the ride.
It's not that I lack complaints about California, I have plenty of those, it's just that I'm... exhausted.
I can't muster the ire to castigate the state on the mathematical certainty of its financial (and social) insolvency. I can't squeeze another drop of passion from the turnip that is my love for this state to pummel the high speed train to nowhere. I can't find a single synapse willing to explain how the variety of leeches up and down the food chain drain everything that was great from this state. Worst of all, I can't even bring myself to contemplate how bad the fall will be.
They won. They wore me down. I just don't care anymore. California is theirs. They can have it with all its dysfunction.
I've put in notice at my good-paying job with advancement opportunities, we've paid out of our lease, and we've shipped out the second car. We're moving to Kentucky.
We're not the first to leave, nor will we be the last.
We've been talking about moving for some time, but had no commitment to any state in particular. Kentucky was under consideration because we have some family there, but to be honest, other states were higher in preference. Last Christmas we visited our family in Kentucky, as we have before, but when we landed in California upon our return I got an odd feeling. I thought about it as we disembarked and finally put my finger on it as we rode the escalator down to the baggage claim. I turned to my wife and said, "I think we're moving to Kentucky." She nodded knowingly and said, "I think so too." And that was that. We left our hearts in Kentucky.
Given this revelation, I immediately checked the gun laws in Kentucky, and found them quite to my liking. Many states that would come to mind when discussing freedom have quirky laws about certain things. Kentucky doesn't have any that I have found.
I want to shoot steel targets in my backyard with my suppressed AR. I want use my Microtech UTX-85 to clean my fingernails. I want to own land that costs hundreds of dollars in property taxes, not thousands. I want to be able to defend my family without getting a signed Notice of Intent to Murder form from my attacker. I want strangers to return the greeting offered in passing. I want to drive to work in under an hour. I want to be able to hunt without researching conflicting ordinances and property lines for 6 months. I want to run a business without fear of the state changing my business classification and demanding back taxes while putting a lien on my business and preemptively draining my bank account (and charging me $200 for the privilege).
I don't want to live in fear that some bureaucrat is going to knock on my door with a piece of paper that says an endangered beetle lives on my land, or I use my wood-burning fireplace too much, or someone thinks I'm abusing my kid, or the tool shed I built needs to be inspected, or my birdbath doesn't have a circulation pump and filter, or my sprinklers ran on Thursday instead of Wednesday, or my garden is too large, or my grass isn't green enough, or my dog looks like a "pitbull mix," or my cat has testicles, or my cigar smoke wafted too far, or my kid's lemonade stand doesn't have a permit, or the political sign on my lawn is too large, or the tree across the sidewalk needs to be trimmed, or I can't have a chicken coop, or my pool doesn't have a fence, or my bicycle doesn't have a license, or I can't have people over to my house to discuss religion or politics, or my car is parked on my property in an unapproved fashion. I could keep going, but why bother?
I want to be free. Or at least, more free.
This move is a big shake-up, and I'm going to take advantage by making some other changes. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do next, but it'll be different. I feel like working with my hands, or for myself, or in a different industry, or all of the above. I don't know what's going to happen, but I know we'll be fine so long as we continue to trust the guidance in our hearts.
Blogging will become more regular (even if I have nothing to blag aboot) as he California job expires. It became uninteresting and unchallenging, and it ruined me for much else by the time I got home. I wasn't kidding about the upward mobility though, by their standards I was a golden boy. They hate to see me leave.
Everyone we've told has been surprisingly supportive. Hints in their speech make me suspect many have heard a similar call but declined to answer.
The stress of this completely out-of-character move may have contributed to the California burnout at the beginning of this post. All my specific concerns have been quelled with trust in guidance, but some deeper part of my brain can't help but worry. It's stressing me out and I can't address it. We move in twenty-something days, and I wish the waiting was over.
I've been playing around with new ideas and practicing the skills I enjoy. I whetted my appetite for fabrication by spending some time at a machine shop working on a project I've enjoyed planning. It's incomplete, but I'm cutting metal and learning fast. Once I get the prototype finalized, I'll toss it up on kickstarter. I think people will want one... or two.
I'm trying to be more productive with the things I like doing. Writing is one of them, so if I'm sticking to my plan, this blog should start getting busy again. Feel free to hold me to it.
I suppose that's it for now. It's terribly late for the morning I have, but I don't care because I finished this post just like I told myself I was going to.
This is the start of something great. Glad you're along for the ride.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Urgent and highly important videos
Stereo Skifcha
[direct link]
Longboarding: Let Go
[direct link]
Watch it full screen 720p. You're welcome.
Longboarding Freeride
[direct link]
[direct link]
Longboarding: Let Go
[direct link]
Watch it full screen 720p. You're welcome.
Longboarding Freeride
[direct link]
We don't pass freedom to our children through the bloodstream.
I jumped at the opportunity to take a coworker, his wife, and his 8-year-old daughter to the sooper seekrit desert shooting spot. It would be the first time the adults shot in 10 years, and the first time ever his daughter shot. I was honored to contribute to the event.
The first lesson sat bisected by my front sight as everyone held their breath, not daring to blink and risk missing the show. With the familiar PAT of the 10/22, the can of soda exploded spectacularly to the cheers of the people behind me. I quickly turned to make sure no one was moving to inspect the target, and returned the rifle to the table.
"Ok, Lexi, before we go in front of the table, is anyone touching the table?"
"Uhhh... No!"
"Ok, lets go look at the can."
"It's all exploded!" Lexi said, carefully handling what used to be a can of soda. The body of the can split wide open with the hydrostatic shock of the soda bursting free under the pressure of the tiny .22 bullet. I held up an uninjured can of soda from the same pack, "Lexi, can you make that go back to being like this?" She looked at the mangled wreck in her hand, and at the sand, darkened with diet cola. "I can make the outside go back, but not the inside." I dropped my head to look at the darkened sand for emphasis, "So you can't make it go back to the way it was?" Lexi seemed more concerned this time, and shook her head solemnly. "That's because when you shoot something, you change it forever. You can't take it back. Do you understand?" She looked at what she was holding and nodded. "Good! Now do you want to do it again?" A missing-toothed grin flashed to her face.
I was a little worried when she couldn't physically reach the trigger with her shoulder on the stock, but with the stock over her shoulder and against her father's chest, and her neck craned up to look down the barrel, she fired her first shots at some stacked cans and immediately flitted away back to the car to watch her DVD. Her father explained that he was unsure how much she might shoot, but he'd be quite content with those few shots if that was all he got. Such is the nature of 8-year-olds, I suppose.
A couple cease fires later, she returned to her proud father with her eyes and ears ready. I had recommended one round in the mag at a time when she was starting, but multiple rounds seemed to favor her attention span, and increase the excitement of what she was doing. After a few flights of firing, flitting, and finding her way back, Lexi became much more comfortable with what she was doing, and started to really enjoy herself.
The same should be said for her parents, who shot an array of guns (which had been waiting patiently in their safe for the better part of a decade) with such zeal, they lost track of time and forgot Lexi's snack time. The result was not a verbal reminder, but an emotional one. It was time to go home. Such is the nature of 8-year-olds, I suppose.
Shooting is one of the few things I derive a deep inner joy from teaching. It was certainly a joyful day.
Her father has chosen to bypass the Crickett and go straight for a 10/22 with a short barrel and a youth stock. He wanted something she could grow into, or he could make use of if she had a change of heart. What remained unsaid was how hard it was to bring a kid back from semiautomatic. Her marksmanship will have to come later.
Ohyeahalso, shot the bulldog, which was brilliant. As it turns out, the mojo rear sight was mandatory because of how much I had to raise it. Apparently the importer chop was rough on the barrel. Thankfully, the mojo has a tall setscrew you can use for coarse adjustments before using the dial for fine adjustment. Excellent sight, highly recommended.
The first lesson sat bisected by my front sight as everyone held their breath, not daring to blink and risk missing the show. With the familiar PAT of the 10/22, the can of soda exploded spectacularly to the cheers of the people behind me. I quickly turned to make sure no one was moving to inspect the target, and returned the rifle to the table.
"Ok, Lexi, before we go in front of the table, is anyone touching the table?"
"Uhhh... No!"
"Ok, lets go look at the can."
"It's all exploded!" Lexi said, carefully handling what used to be a can of soda. The body of the can split wide open with the hydrostatic shock of the soda bursting free under the pressure of the tiny .22 bullet. I held up an uninjured can of soda from the same pack, "Lexi, can you make that go back to being like this?" She looked at the mangled wreck in her hand, and at the sand, darkened with diet cola. "I can make the outside go back, but not the inside." I dropped my head to look at the darkened sand for emphasis, "So you can't make it go back to the way it was?" Lexi seemed more concerned this time, and shook her head solemnly. "That's because when you shoot something, you change it forever. You can't take it back. Do you understand?" She looked at what she was holding and nodded. "Good! Now do you want to do it again?" A missing-toothed grin flashed to her face.
I was a little worried when she couldn't physically reach the trigger with her shoulder on the stock, but with the stock over her shoulder and against her father's chest, and her neck craned up to look down the barrel, she fired her first shots at some stacked cans and immediately flitted away back to the car to watch her DVD. Her father explained that he was unsure how much she might shoot, but he'd be quite content with those few shots if that was all he got. Such is the nature of 8-year-olds, I suppose.
A couple cease fires later, she returned to her proud father with her eyes and ears ready. I had recommended one round in the mag at a time when she was starting, but multiple rounds seemed to favor her attention span, and increase the excitement of what she was doing. After a few flights of firing, flitting, and finding her way back, Lexi became much more comfortable with what she was doing, and started to really enjoy herself.
The same should be said for her parents, who shot an array of guns (which had been waiting patiently in their safe for the better part of a decade) with such zeal, they lost track of time and forgot Lexi's snack time. The result was not a verbal reminder, but an emotional one. It was time to go home. Such is the nature of 8-year-olds, I suppose.
Shooting is one of the few things I derive a deep inner joy from teaching. It was certainly a joyful day.
Her father has chosen to bypass the Crickett and go straight for a 10/22 with a short barrel and a youth stock. He wanted something she could grow into, or he could make use of if she had a change of heart. What remained unsaid was how hard it was to bring a kid back from semiautomatic. Her marksmanship will have to come later.
Ohyeahalso, shot the bulldog, which was brilliant. As it turns out, the mojo rear sight was mandatory because of how much I had to raise it. Apparently the importer chop was rough on the barrel. Thankfully, the mojo has a tall setscrew you can use for coarse adjustments before using the dial for fine adjustment. Excellent sight, highly recommended.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Our Deepest Fear
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.-Marianne Williamson
Monday, January 09, 2012
Musics!
Kimbra - "Settle Down" (Official)
[direct link]
RATATAT - MIRANDO
[direct link]
AWOLNATION - "Not Your Fault" (Official)
[direct link]
AWOLNATION - "Sail" (Video is of some guy who is insanely awesome)
[direct link]
[OBLIGATORY DUBSTEP]
Zomboy - Organ Donor
[direct link]
Kimbra's vocal technical skill reminded me of a talent I will miss... RIP Amy.
[direct link]
[direct link]
RATATAT - MIRANDO
[direct link]
AWOLNATION - "Not Your Fault" (Official)
[direct link]
AWOLNATION - "Sail" (Video is of some guy who is insanely awesome)
[direct link]
[OBLIGATORY DUBSTEP]
Zomboy - Organ Donor
[direct link]
Kimbra's vocal technical skill reminded me of a talent I will miss... RIP Amy.
[direct link]
Thursday, January 05, 2012
My Rifle MK2 - Dissipator Conversion
There has been a modification to My Rifle.
For a bit of cash, I had the good folks at RifleGear (right down the street!) do this dissipator conversion.
I wanted to do this to make the rifle more comfortable, more sling-able, and more unique/awesome. I had a few options for accomplishing this. Free floated rail farm aluminum handguards were too damn heavy, and would require a low rail-mounted front sight (I like the classic A2 front sight appearance). Carbon fiber free floated handguards were nice and light and looked great, but cost more to buy than the whole job I wound up going with. They put on a low profile gas block at the original carbine length sight position, and because the front of the M4 profile barrel wasn't wide enough, they had to use a clamp-on front sight instead of just drilling new taper pin holes on a fresh A2 sight. If I had more cash to spend, I would have gotten a barrel without the M4 profile, but it'll have to do for now.
I was surprised that I could definitely feel the difference in balance. It was noticeable, but not enough to be a distraction. I wonder how much it will affect the recoil.
You might notice the rear sight is different. I took a hacksaw and file to the original removable carry handle rear sight, and touched it up with the rattle can. This was because the large screw heads on the right side (it's a lefty) got caught on my clothing, and on the left side, the forward screw head interfered with upward flipping ejection port cover. Chopping it meant I could use it without it getting caught on my clothes or interfering with ejection, while looking sweet. I really like what it does to the profile of the rifle. Eventually there will be a TRS-25 cowitnessing on the newly exposed flattop. The ACOG is nearby, set for rail mount.
Because this modification was not high priority, and I'm a function over form guy, I've done this as inexpensively as possible. I'll post range results when I have them.
For a bit of cash, I had the good folks at RifleGear (right down the street!) do this dissipator conversion.
I wanted to do this to make the rifle more comfortable, more sling-able, and more unique/awesome. I had a few options for accomplishing this. Free floated rail farm aluminum handguards were too damn heavy, and would require a low rail-mounted front sight (I like the classic A2 front sight appearance). Carbon fiber free floated handguards were nice and light and looked great, but cost more to buy than the whole job I wound up going with. They put on a low profile gas block at the original carbine length sight position, and because the front of the M4 profile barrel wasn't wide enough, they had to use a clamp-on front sight instead of just drilling new taper pin holes on a fresh A2 sight. If I had more cash to spend, I would have gotten a barrel without the M4 profile, but it'll have to do for now.
I was surprised that I could definitely feel the difference in balance. It was noticeable, but not enough to be a distraction. I wonder how much it will affect the recoil.
You might notice the rear sight is different. I took a hacksaw and file to the original removable carry handle rear sight, and touched it up with the rattle can. This was because the large screw heads on the right side (it's a lefty) got caught on my clothing, and on the left side, the forward screw head interfered with upward flipping ejection port cover. Chopping it meant I could use it without it getting caught on my clothes or interfering with ejection, while looking sweet. I really like what it does to the profile of the rifle. Eventually there will be a TRS-25 cowitnessing on the newly exposed flattop. The ACOG is nearby, set for rail mount.
Because this modification was not high priority, and I'm a function over form guy, I've done this as inexpensively as possible. I'll post range results when I have them.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Good guys don't wear masks... yet.
It's hard not to appreciate the simplicity of the solution the London rioters employed. One minute they're a bystander fleeing the throng, the next, all identifying features are covered, and they are free to do as they please. We now see Occupy X protesters using here what was proven successful there. As resistance and violence increases, so will the need for anonymity.
We will need it too. It's not usually our style to hide who we are, but if things continue the way they are now, it will become a necessity.
Because what some call vigilantism, others call responsibility.
So buy oversized hoodies and handkerchiefs for each person willing, and keep one set in each vehicle. You could even get track pants, gloves, and shoe covers, but I don't think they're as necessary here as in London, where CCTV can track you from cradle to grave. All this can be shoved into a drawstring backpack (or small regular backpack), so you can enter an unmonitored area, and emerge anonymously with the backpack on UNDER your hoodie.
You may wonder why we should have to be anonymous? The good guys don't wear masks. We're in the right, we're preserving order, we're defending civilization from the barbarians. Right?
Maybe. It depends on which way the political winds are blowing. Right and wrong are now subject to popularity, politics (but I repeat myself), and circumstance, and selective enforcement of law is the new weapon of those in power with an axe to grind.
There may be a time when, as far as our leaders are concerned, we're tromping on the "right" of the people/the minority/the disaffected youth/the unemployed/the union to "petition for redress" their community by burning it down and stealing from it. When the peace-loving gang of Occupy X protesters express their righteous frustration with the economic system by kicking the local business owner in the head as he lay bloody and motionless on the pavement, we would be the ones who "escalated force disproportionately" by responding how any sane human being would.
They will be the poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
We will be the vigilantes, terrorists, escalators, and murderers.
WE will be the ones getting no-knocked four days later when fingered by the liberal down the street after you didn't let him steal what society owed him from the local big screen teevee shop, or after impeding the path of a riot with (gasp) a gun, or worse: after stopping a felony in progress.
With many of our leaders showing support for a movement that has openly called for a violent revolution, we can't expect laws of man or god to be enforced for long.
If good people push back when the mob turns, I don't think there will need to be much fighting. But if there is, who would you be fighting against?
I don't think you're ever going to get in a shootout with the granola-eating, tree-hugging, whale saving, Prius-driving, ponytail-sporting liberal down the street. Our current flavor of liberals aren't willing to die for their beliefs. They're more likely to gather at a book burning or throw bricks from within a crowd (though some might be brave enough to kick an unconscious and pre-beaten capitalist in the back). I don't think you're going to need to do more than send one whizzing over the head of a privileged child with a master's in Neo-Colonialism of Industrialized Capitalist Superpowers by Global Policies of Socio-Economic Oppression (who somehow can't get a job or figure out how a hammer works) who's caught up in the group-think of "The Human Megaphone," in order to send them crying back to their parents' McMansion. The Anarchists might issue a few sucker punches, but they're more about riling up the crowd. Some of the true believers might be convinced to pull a trigger, but if fire is returned, they care more about their foodstamp-fed bodies than their ideology. But unions? They scare me. They've got bodies that will do what they're told, organization, mob tactics, and aren't afraid of dealing out "righteous" violence to get what they say they deserve. And the worst part? Police have a history of letting union violence slide because of the political power behind them.
So when world turns upside-down, and the have-nots have tacit political approval to fight the haves of all shapes and sizes, what do you do after you catch your reflection in the mirror and don't recognize it?
That's entirely up to you and the degree to which you see yourself as belonging to something larger than yourself.
Do you remove your license plates, and drive until you think you're beyond the reach of the ideologies of jealousy and entitlement? (hint: don't stop till you hit Mars)
Do you stand in front of your business or house, say "this is MY line in the sand," and shoot whoever crosses it? (hint: this usually compromises your anonymity)
Do you organize your neighbors, Katrina-style, and barricade entrances to your neighborhood, form a fire brigade, repel rioters, arsonists, and offer no witnesses to police inquiries about the additional ventilation provided to the aforementioned? (hint: "Officer, we have 20 witnesses who say that guy fell on those bullets before he dropped his Molotov cocktail and became engulfed in flames...")
Do you form mobile citizen fire brigades and response teams to enforce the laws the police can't or won't?
Or do you let the practicality of your mind defeat the truth and honor in your heart, and do nothing?
I don't know. Like I said, that part is entirely up to you.
Pray for a future wherein we may enjoy a beer and laugh at our overreaction as we look back on this mental and material preparedness. I'll buy the first round.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Miffed over OnStar tracking? Try cell phone tracking.
I see everyone getting indignant over OnStar tracking your location speed, seat belt status, etc after people requested the service be disabled. But for years cellular providers have been keeping records of your location and your calls, and selling them to the highest bidder in most states, and to law enforcement organizations in all states, without a warrant.
Just keeping this all in perspective...
Just keeping this all in perspective...
Sunday, September 18, 2011
The History channel.
Have you ever watched a History channel show about the lead up to X conflict, or Y situation? Did you find yourself yelling "Wake up, Sheeple™! Don't you see what's coming?!" at the teevee? If so, you should keep in mind that all the key events have been distilled out, and placed in a nice neat line of dominoes in the interest of focus and brevity.
Imagine watching one of those shows that was 30 years long, where each ominous event is noted in under 10 words as it passes on a news ticker at the bottom of the screen, while the main screen shows Charlie Sheen's rants or the new awards show or some wayward starlet's mug shot, or if those things don't strike your fancy, the latest footage from Afghanistan or the recent sports game or the newest tech gadget.
Are your progeny going to say, "Grandpa, we just learned about the global collapse in school, and we couldn't understand why you didn't see it coming." To which you may reply, "Well, little Jenny, it was a different time then. We wanted to keep track of the important things, but other things kept getting in the way. There was the NFL strike, Lindsay Lohan's rehab, decades of baseball stats, arguing on internet forums, video games, the new season of Dexter, iPods, health scares, new electronics, funny cat pictures, internet videos of people hurting themselves, Facebook, new and exciting things that were going to kill us in new and exciting ways, and the pills. So many pills. Have I told you about the pills? Pills for happy, pills for sad. Pills for bored, pills for mad. Pills to treat every affliction, and pills to curb our pill addiction. We had a cure for society's ills, and it was always pills, pills, pills." "Mom! Grandpa's Cat-in-the-Hatting again!"
History is a very interesting thing. Once it's past, we like to comment on it from the comfort of our armchairs. But we refuse to recognize that we're making (or not making!) history every day, and that one day, people in armchairs will look on our history as we looked on our forerunners', and they will comment. What will their comments be?
Imagine watching one of those shows that was 30 years long, where each ominous event is noted in under 10 words as it passes on a news ticker at the bottom of the screen, while the main screen shows Charlie Sheen's rants or the new awards show or some wayward starlet's mug shot, or if those things don't strike your fancy, the latest footage from Afghanistan or the recent sports game or the newest tech gadget.
Are your progeny going to say, "Grandpa, we just learned about the global collapse in school, and we couldn't understand why you didn't see it coming." To which you may reply, "Well, little Jenny, it was a different time then. We wanted to keep track of the important things, but other things kept getting in the way. There was the NFL strike, Lindsay Lohan's rehab, decades of baseball stats, arguing on internet forums, video games, the new season of Dexter, iPods, health scares, new electronics, funny cat pictures, internet videos of people hurting themselves, Facebook, new and exciting things that were going to kill us in new and exciting ways, and the pills. So many pills. Have I told you about the pills? Pills for happy, pills for sad. Pills for bored, pills for mad. Pills to treat every affliction, and pills to curb our pill addiction. We had a cure for society's ills, and it was always pills, pills, pills." "Mom! Grandpa's Cat-in-the-Hatting again!"
History is a very interesting thing. Once it's past, we like to comment on it from the comfort of our armchairs. But we refuse to recognize that we're making (or not making!) history every day, and that one day, people in armchairs will look on our history as we looked on our forerunners', and they will comment. What will their comments be?
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Feel better?
It seemed the area was clear. They must have been keeping the area around their hideout clear of zeds. I did a quick room-to-room search of the building, ignoring the sounds of wet thuds and grunt-screams from that woman in the office. When I was satisfied, I made my way pack to the office. As I rounded the corner I got to watch for a few moments as she wildly stabbed at what used to be her rapist's crotch. It looked as if a small bomb had gone off in his pelvis, all that was left was blood and pulp. The blade rang as it hit bone-- or the concrete beneath. One hundred and two pounds of primal rage focused every fiber of its being on one thing. Face twisted into something never before seen in civilization. I didn't dare interrupt. She became aware of my presence all at once, and jump-slipped backwards into the wall, horrified and confused at what had happened, eyes transfixed on the creation of some demon. As she caught her breath, she managed between gasps for air, "I just-- ... He was-- ... I didn't--... When he--..." I stared at her eyes until she met my gaze. "Feel better?"
She looked at herself, covered in blood and started hyperventilating.
She looked at herself, covered in blood and started hyperventilating.
Aliens
"These people aren't from around here. They moved here from far away. Not even this planet. They float around, bumping into things, playing the part they're supposed to play. Surprised, sad, happy, laugh. They perform these things but they aren't these things. They're empty vessels. Husks occupied by some alien force trying desperately to become human. To feel what the real humans feel, to taste what the real humans taste, to experience what real humans experience. But they can't. Because they're not human. They just want to be real. The lives were always better on the other side of the galaxy, so they came here to become real people, and to live what they thought they should live, instead of realizing that they had all the life they needed where they were. They suffered from the same defect as humans. Envy. Envy so blinding that they couldn't see beyond their flat little non-noses to the truth of reality. The truth that they are who or what they are, and nothing can ever change that. The ironic thing about it is that they would live what they believed were happy lives where they only somewhere else when they formed their opinions. Instead they chase what they can never have, and tell themselves how great their lives are now that they aren't who they were. They see things on television and in magazines and they become those things. Like a child putting on its parents' clothes so it can pretend to be grown up. Or an adult, doing childish things so it can pretend it's not. There's never any satisfaction in these lives. No appreciation. No love. No laughter. No soul. These people have to be something. They can't just be. This would all be understandable -- even excusable -- if these self-propelled sacks of chemicals really were aliens from another planet. But they're not. They're actually magical beings of endless complexities and uniqueness, blessed with life by a random amalgamation of atoms formed in the very stars they hide behind their roofs and their eyelids and their bright lights. Stars so beyond their experience, so unfathomably far, so incomprehensibly large, so impossibly hot that they must avert their gaze from their creators, their gods. They're afraid. They're afraid to acknowledge the miracle of their lives because they're shaken to their core by the thought that they'll have to stop doing all the things they've been pretending were important after they realize how important they themselves are. What they don't understand is that there is only one thing that changes when you realize the greatest truth of your life. Your perspective.
I'm going to change that."
I'm going to change that."
Reasons
Warren turned to Jacobs with a strange look on his weathered face. Fascination? Morbidity? Condescension? Or was it something else? Something I'd never thought of? Once he caught Jacobs's eyes he purposefully drew his Beretta, ejected a 9mm round from its chamber, and caught it in the air, all without breaking eye contact. Warren turned the round in his hands and held it up between himself and Jacobs and spoke, "Don't you see? That's the amazing thing about a bullet. A bullet is a hunk of metal. Nothing more, nothing less. It doesn't care if you've got a badge, backup on radio, a SWAT team, or a helicopter in the air. Hell, it doesn't even care if you command thousands of nuclear bombs. All it does is fly straight, and fly though soft things like us. It is impartial. It has no fear, no remorse, and no respect. It will not deviate because you're a cop, or a soldier, or a child, or a king, or a president, or the Pope, or God him-fucking-self. People like us grow to forget that fact. It's only natural. We get respect, so we think we have the respect of everyone. We get fear, so we think we have the fear of everyone. We get power, so we think we have power over everyone. We forget that it only takes one bullet to end us, and one person to fire it. Body armor can be penetrated, windshields can be shattered, arteries can be opened by a prison shiv made from a fucking plastic spork. You keep going out there and pushing people around like you're invincible, and you're going to give someone a reason to remind you that you ain't. Every civy out there... Every single one... Is capable of ending you. Some more than others. They just need the right reason. 'Some more than others' there too. You don't live as long as I have by putin' on the uniform, walking out that door, and giving people reasons."
Monolith
"You know the difference between you and me? You look up at that building and see a Monolith. A huge, overbearing structure assembled by the will of powerful architects. Representing the unshakable dominance of the kings that commissioned it. Daunting. Intimidating. Invincible. You know what I see? I see people. Simple people with simple jobs. People made of flesh, and muscle, and bone. Fragile people. People who do their job not because they believe in what they are doing, or the ends of their efforts, but because it's their occupation. People easily dissuaded. People easily scared. People easily killed. With those people shuffled off or scared off, the monolith becomes a husk. It may still stand upright and tall, but it is lame. A decaying symbol of a dead power. The shadow of kings."
A bit late.
It was a job well done. He told his superiors they needed another few hours though they'd already cleaned the place out. No one was there, so there was no action, and that makes the door-kickers antsy; so he got a few extra hours so they could have some liberty time to unwind.
It was the fourth raid Black Boot team had been on in the past week. The guys liked all the action, and relished the rush they got from taking out Enemies of the State. Plus they got to enjoy a few choice picks from the collections they confiscated. Sure, it was tough luck for the guys that got raided, since they usually got overwhelmed in bed, and were never taken alive, but the law was the law, and without it there would be chaos.
The Black Boots were sitting around the rural property of the house they'd raided checking out their loot, drinking some beer Martinez snuck in one of the duffel bags, and generally horsing around. He avoided the childishness because he thought it undermined his authority over them. He picked a spot under a large elm tree facing the sunset where the roots formed a natural seat for him. He treated his job with a bit more seriousness than they did. It was hard for him to go after Americans. It helped to think of them as he'd been instructed; as domestic terrorists. But he knew they were just Americans. Americans like his grandfather who stood up to firehoses and dogs to secure his rights. All of his rights, including the right to keep and bear arms. But things were different now. His grandfather wouldn't want to own one of these assault weapons... Would he? He protected his family from the KKK, but those times were gone now. We're more civilized. We have better laws.
He ignored the dirty joke being told behind him, and stared at the low-hanging sun trying to quell the odd feeling he always got after he did his job. He sat with one knee elevated, and his gloved hand on top. Something struck him about the black tactical glove that interrupted the natural scene before him. He took it off and felt the cool air hit his hand as he replaced it on his knee. That was better.
As he drifted closer to a welcome nap, he noticed a small black spot grow from the top of a distant hill below the sunset. Like one of the armadillos that plagued the area struggling up the incline, then stopping at the top to survey the land around him. He idly thought, "That's a big armadillo. How far away is that?" He squinted.
First he saw the flash. He could just barely make it out so near the setting sun. Then he heard the buzz of the bullet. Then he heard the sick slap of impact on flesh behind him. Then he saw the spray of blood and matter hit the back of his naked hand still on his knee. He didn't even have time to change his expression. Then he heard the shot. He stared at his bloodied hand.
It wasn't till the second shot buzzed by him that he was broken from his hypnosis. He clambered around behind the tree, and almost tripped over his machine gun. He struggled a thought. "What the hell?! That can't be Jacobs! What balls he must have to shoot at the Black Boots!" Henry Jacobs was the owner of the property they were enjoying, thought to have fled days before the raid. Officially, he was being raided on suspicion of owning silencer parts, but the truth was that he had been a vocal opponent of theirs for years. There wasn't anything in his file about him being a sniper. As far as they knew, he was just a typical fat slob gun nut. Someone was going to pay for this oversight. He moved his back against the tree but lost his footing in the exposed roots and fell backwards into a sitting position, hitting his head hard.
He was frozen in a minor daze. He saw his teammates running for cover, and their weapons, being systematically cut down. Shot in the chest or head, sometimes straight through cover. Those who could make it to their machine guns returned fire to no effect. They were shot in the head when they exposed themselves to fire. He couldn't process what he was seeing as he watched his men die. Those who were not killed on the first shot were hit in the head, ending them in a bloody show. Jackson was the first to run, and was ended before he could make it 15 feet. The remaining members of the Black Boot squad were cowering behind any cover, refusing to expose the smallest bit of themselves. There was a short reprieve, then the shots began hitting the cover, ripping blindly through to their targets. As he regained himself he began to stand against the tree, a shot ripped through the tree trunk just above his head, showering him with splinters. The pain on his scalp snapped him back into his situation. He was lucid now, he had to think about his men, he had to fight back. He grabbed his sub machine gun, took a deep breath, and stepped out from behind the tree, leveling his gun at the target.
He emptied his sub machine gun at the small shape on the hill, and became enraged when he saw his shots kick up the dust a little more than half way to their target. "Who messed with my gun?!" he thought angrily. "It always hits dead center at the range!" Then he realized that he'd never shot it beyond 100 feet. Then he realized he'd never shot it at anyone who was shooting back. Then he realized he'd never actually shot anyone who wasn't in their bed, 5 feet away. For a brief moment he felt a repressed thought push to escape; then cease its struggle.
They were the Black Boots, they were number one, they were the best. They couldn't be wiped out by one man.
Presently, he realized he was not reloading his gun. He looked down and found his sub machine gun on the ground, and his arms hanging at his side. A cold wind chilled a spot on his chest underneath his vest. "How can I feel the cold through my vest?" He tried to say. He bent forward to inspect the cold spot, but realized he wasn't bending forward, he was falling backwards. The world spun downward, and the tree he was under came into view. After he contemplated this occurrence, and considered previous data, he came to the conclusion he had been shot.
It was strange. He always thought he would go out in a cacophonous chorus of gunfire, bullets ripping through his body as he expended his final rounds and issued a war cry before rushing headlong at his attackers, knife in hand, defiant to the end. Instead he lay backwards on the cool grass among strangely aromatic flowers, his face warmed by the low sun. The world around him lazy. Frozen in serenity. It seemed odd that such violence could happen in such a beautiful place. He was lost in thought now. The rifle issued death with slow, dull thuds. As he listened, the bullet whiz and rifle crack seemed separated and disturbed the peace of the valley; but after a while, the sound seemed almost natural. Like it was the way things were supposed to be. As if it were as common a sound as the birds singing or the wolves howling.
Time lost meaning as he drifted in the sea of grass, pushed gently about by the wind. Then he heard the faintest footsteps approaching, and forced himself back to reality and his suffering to see the man who had taken his life.
The man was small, and looked younger than the 31 years his file indicated. Everything about him was plain except for his sharp eyes. The man was checking the bodies that were once familiar, but he seemed aware he was being watched. The rifle he cradled looked old, like out of a history book. A small scope was mounted awkwardly forward, and looked strange. Through the haze he thought, "We're so much bigger, and better equipped. How could we have been beaten by that gun?" He looked at the insulting rifle, and noticed an engraving on the stock. It was something he'd seen before. Something from the files he had reviewed. It was that flag with the snake that said, "Don't tread on me" under it. Everything seemed suddenly clear.
He fought for a wheezing breath, attracting the man's attention, and rasped, "I think --- I understand."
The man who killed him squinted at the wind as he scanned the horizon, then turned to his quarry.
"It's a bit late for that."
It was the fourth raid Black Boot team had been on in the past week. The guys liked all the action, and relished the rush they got from taking out Enemies of the State. Plus they got to enjoy a few choice picks from the collections they confiscated. Sure, it was tough luck for the guys that got raided, since they usually got overwhelmed in bed, and were never taken alive, but the law was the law, and without it there would be chaos.
The Black Boots were sitting around the rural property of the house they'd raided checking out their loot, drinking some beer Martinez snuck in one of the duffel bags, and generally horsing around. He avoided the childishness because he thought it undermined his authority over them. He picked a spot under a large elm tree facing the sunset where the roots formed a natural seat for him. He treated his job with a bit more seriousness than they did. It was hard for him to go after Americans. It helped to think of them as he'd been instructed; as domestic terrorists. But he knew they were just Americans. Americans like his grandfather who stood up to firehoses and dogs to secure his rights. All of his rights, including the right to keep and bear arms. But things were different now. His grandfather wouldn't want to own one of these assault weapons... Would he? He protected his family from the KKK, but those times were gone now. We're more civilized. We have better laws.
He ignored the dirty joke being told behind him, and stared at the low-hanging sun trying to quell the odd feeling he always got after he did his job. He sat with one knee elevated, and his gloved hand on top. Something struck him about the black tactical glove that interrupted the natural scene before him. He took it off and felt the cool air hit his hand as he replaced it on his knee. That was better.
As he drifted closer to a welcome nap, he noticed a small black spot grow from the top of a distant hill below the sunset. Like one of the armadillos that plagued the area struggling up the incline, then stopping at the top to survey the land around him. He idly thought, "That's a big armadillo. How far away is that?" He squinted.
First he saw the flash. He could just barely make it out so near the setting sun. Then he heard the buzz of the bullet. Then he heard the sick slap of impact on flesh behind him. Then he saw the spray of blood and matter hit the back of his naked hand still on his knee. He didn't even have time to change his expression. Then he heard the shot. He stared at his bloodied hand.
It wasn't till the second shot buzzed by him that he was broken from his hypnosis. He clambered around behind the tree, and almost tripped over his machine gun. He struggled a thought. "What the hell?! That can't be Jacobs! What balls he must have to shoot at the Black Boots!" Henry Jacobs was the owner of the property they were enjoying, thought to have fled days before the raid. Officially, he was being raided on suspicion of owning silencer parts, but the truth was that he had been a vocal opponent of theirs for years. There wasn't anything in his file about him being a sniper. As far as they knew, he was just a typical fat slob gun nut. Someone was going to pay for this oversight. He moved his back against the tree but lost his footing in the exposed roots and fell backwards into a sitting position, hitting his head hard.
He was frozen in a minor daze. He saw his teammates running for cover, and their weapons, being systematically cut down. Shot in the chest or head, sometimes straight through cover. Those who could make it to their machine guns returned fire to no effect. They were shot in the head when they exposed themselves to fire. He couldn't process what he was seeing as he watched his men die. Those who were not killed on the first shot were hit in the head, ending them in a bloody show. Jackson was the first to run, and was ended before he could make it 15 feet. The remaining members of the Black Boot squad were cowering behind any cover, refusing to expose the smallest bit of themselves. There was a short reprieve, then the shots began hitting the cover, ripping blindly through to their targets. As he regained himself he began to stand against the tree, a shot ripped through the tree trunk just above his head, showering him with splinters. The pain on his scalp snapped him back into his situation. He was lucid now, he had to think about his men, he had to fight back. He grabbed his sub machine gun, took a deep breath, and stepped out from behind the tree, leveling his gun at the target.
He emptied his sub machine gun at the small shape on the hill, and became enraged when he saw his shots kick up the dust a little more than half way to their target. "Who messed with my gun?!" he thought angrily. "It always hits dead center at the range!" Then he realized that he'd never shot it beyond 100 feet. Then he realized he'd never shot it at anyone who was shooting back. Then he realized he'd never actually shot anyone who wasn't in their bed, 5 feet away. For a brief moment he felt a repressed thought push to escape; then cease its struggle.
They were the Black Boots, they were number one, they were the best. They couldn't be wiped out by one man.
Presently, he realized he was not reloading his gun. He looked down and found his sub machine gun on the ground, and his arms hanging at his side. A cold wind chilled a spot on his chest underneath his vest. "How can I feel the cold through my vest?" He tried to say. He bent forward to inspect the cold spot, but realized he wasn't bending forward, he was falling backwards. The world spun downward, and the tree he was under came into view. After he contemplated this occurrence, and considered previous data, he came to the conclusion he had been shot.
It was strange. He always thought he would go out in a cacophonous chorus of gunfire, bullets ripping through his body as he expended his final rounds and issued a war cry before rushing headlong at his attackers, knife in hand, defiant to the end. Instead he lay backwards on the cool grass among strangely aromatic flowers, his face warmed by the low sun. The world around him lazy. Frozen in serenity. It seemed odd that such violence could happen in such a beautiful place. He was lost in thought now. The rifle issued death with slow, dull thuds. As he listened, the bullet whiz and rifle crack seemed separated and disturbed the peace of the valley; but after a while, the sound seemed almost natural. Like it was the way things were supposed to be. As if it were as common a sound as the birds singing or the wolves howling.
Time lost meaning as he drifted in the sea of grass, pushed gently about by the wind. Then he heard the faintest footsteps approaching, and forced himself back to reality and his suffering to see the man who had taken his life.
The man was small, and looked younger than the 31 years his file indicated. Everything about him was plain except for his sharp eyes. The man was checking the bodies that were once familiar, but he seemed aware he was being watched. The rifle he cradled looked old, like out of a history book. A small scope was mounted awkwardly forward, and looked strange. Through the haze he thought, "We're so much bigger, and better equipped. How could we have been beaten by that gun?" He looked at the insulting rifle, and noticed an engraving on the stock. It was something he'd seen before. Something from the files he had reviewed. It was that flag with the snake that said, "Don't tread on me" under it. Everything seemed suddenly clear.
He fought for a wheezing breath, attracting the man's attention, and rasped, "I think --- I understand."
The man who killed him squinted at the wind as he scanned the horizon, then turned to his quarry.
"It's a bit late for that."
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