counter was a prominent framed poster of Wayne LaPierre, Executive Vice President of the National Rifle Association.
âYou want some mozzarella sticks?â Leland asked Ted.
âNo thanks, chief. Maybe later. I only had breakfast an hour ago,â Ted replied, desperate to get his hands on the M4 assault rifle.
âSuit yourself, Iâm gettinâ me some,â said Leland, making his way toward the huge bar.
Everyone greeted Leland with respect and, as Ted had done seconds earlier, called him âchiefâ. Little wonder his favorite t-shirt had the word emblazoned on it in big yellow letters. That was the tee Leland wore on weekends, when hundreds of gun-loving Americans and their families would descend on the Academy. Not everybody came to shoot or take a course on how to use firearms; the Academy was simply one of the favored hangouts of second-amendment fanatics. On Sundays, the Academy would play host to people of all ages, colors, and races, united in their disdain for Obamaâs proposal to have Congress debate a law banning the use and purchase of automatic weapons.
âCome on, pal, come over here and join me for a beer!â yelled Leland in the direction of Ted, who was salivating at the prospect of feeling the M4A1 in his hands.
âI never say no to a beer!â Ted replied, making his way toward the bar.
Leland was chewing on the still piping hot mozzarella sticks, seemingly without burning his tongue or the roof of his mouth.
âGo on, have one...â he urged Ted, who didnât need a second invitation and bit into one of the sticks, taking care not to burn his own mouth.
âSome Italian journalist came by on Sunday. You know, one of those ball-breaking conscientious objectors who think theyâre smarter than everyone else. I spotted him straight away. He was like a fish out of water!â
âWhat did he want?â asked Ted.
âYou know what Europeans are like: damn democrats hoping to speak to us and find out why we would possibly want to bear arms.â
âAnd did he interview you?â
âSure. But if youâd been here, heâd have interviewed you as well,â replied Leland.
âWhat did he ask?â
âThe usual bullshit about how gun ownership is linked to shootings in schools and stuff like that. I told him: âGuns donât shoot themselves.â If heâd just thought for a second about how many Americans own a gun, heâd have realized that by his reckoning the entire United States should be populated by the ghosts of people whoâve been shot just for fun. It pisses me off how people draw parallels between folk like us, who are simply defending the second amendment, and a few fucking screwballs. Weâve got more than three hundred million guns in circulation and they try to lecture us on morals! They can go fuck themselves!â Leland shouted, his face red with anger.
âI hope you ripped him a new one, chief. I can just picture that pussy journalist asking his questions, trying to get the moral high ground. Who the fuck are these Europeans anyway? Do you think any of them actually swear allegiance to that blue flag with the stars? I donât know what the Brits are waiting for. They should just leave! They barely tolerate one another, they donât even speak the same language for Christâs sake! The only thing uniting them is that stupid currency, and thatâs likely to fall below the dollar. Well, I say let them stay unarmed and ready to be fucked by some demented regime! Seems like theyâve already forgotten all their fucking dictators. They just donât get how important the second amendment is. They see us as cowboys, but when theyâre totally screwed by another crazed despot, theyâll be begging for our help...â
âTell me about it. They squeal and we come running!â
âAnd Iâll tell you something else: I bet theyâre sat there jerking off listening to Obama on TV, and they canât wait to pin the blame on the United States when some crazy shit happens in the world!â
âYou tell âem, Ted!â cried Leland, banging his fist on the bar.
âLook, chief, I wonât deny that at my age even Iâm starting to think it might be sensible to restrict the sale of guns to civilians. Automatics, I mean. Only people with their heads screwed on and both their oars in the water should be allowed to own an automatic. Even better, why not limit them to people who have served in the military and sworn allegiance to the United States? Loyal people, patriots, people like us, Leland....â Ted said, and took a long sip of his beer.
âSure, but people should always be ready to do whatever they have to do to protect themselves...â
âA decent pistol is more than good enough for protection. Some weapons should be reserved for war,â replied Ted, still caught up in the emotion of the discussion after Lelandâs impassioned rant.
âDepends on who the enemy is, Ted. Whatâs the name of that spaghetti western where Clint Eastwood says: â When a man with a .45 meets a man with a rifle, the man with a pistol will be a dead manâ?â
âI didnât know the Italians could make movies!â joked Ted, as Leland and the barman who had been listening to their conversation joined him in roaring with laughter.
âYouâre a lowlife, Ted Burton, and Iâve always loved you for it, but Iâm tellinâ you, that was a great movie!â
Ted and Leland quickly finished their beers and retrieved their assault rifles in readiness for their contest on the range.
âHey look, Major, seems as though itâs on the house for you today,â Leland said, pointing at a sign that read: âKids shoot freeâ.
âThanks, granddad, but I donât need a sign. I may be retired, but just looking at you makes me feel young,â replied Ted.
âWhat do you say we make this a little more interesting? Ten beers says youâll be bawling like a baby when we compare our M4 scores,â Leland challenged Ted.
âYouâre on, granddad. Iâll be beating you just because I donât want to have to carry you home over my shoulder...â replied Ted, laughing as he followed his friend into the shooting area, his rifle slung over his shoulder and boxes of ammunition firmly in his grasp.
Chapter 9
H enry was relaxing between classes, and had quickly forgotten all about the math test, when suddenly he heard the unmistakable sound of the ice cream truck drifting in through the window. Actually, it wasnât the same tune as normal, but it was close enough. Henry looked out and saw that, indeed, it wasnât the usual truck.
â Mr. Smith must have had to get rid of his old truckâ¦â the boy thought to himself, speculating that his favorite vendor must have fallen on hard times: in place of his usual huge white and pink truck with a giant plastic ice cream cone on the roof was an smaller old gray campervan with just some small modifications on one side. The vehicle looked like something out of those World War II
