It’s the jews. It’s always the God damn jews.
They wanted to draft my ass, to fight their war off in that jungle, so they can get rich. Those bankers. That’s what it’s all about. That’s what it’s always all about.
I got a notice to report to the draft board. I used it for a target. I grinned when I looked at the first 100 yard group. Those five .223 Remington holes looked mighty nice. I measured just over 3 inches. That Colt SP-1 in my hand was my favorite. The perfectionist in me of course wanted it tighter, but oh well.
They sent me a second notice to appear. That met with the same fate. Albeit a slightly tighter group, just under 3 inches.
I’m eighteen. I worked full time down at the AG plant on the other side of town, driving a fork lift. I quit school when I was twelve, when my old man died, and mom was sick. Too sick to work. Those were a tough couple years. Things got better when at fourteen I got full time work at the plant. I drove mom’s car. No one complained. Even the sheriff’s deputies looked the other way. Probably because I was a decent driver and everyone knew we were on hard times.
When I wasn’t at work or caring for mom, and our little house, I’d go out to the woods some ways out of town, and shoot. Friends? People don’t make sense. I shot mostly .22 LR’s. That Marlin Model 60 with a 3-9x Leopold, that’s a sweet little rifle. I can shoot 100 yards, 18 shot, 3in groups. Those .22LR’s don’t always punch through ply wood at that range. When dad died, and the life insurance came through, mom told me I could get a new rifle. She said she wanted me to have one good thing out all that pain. I showed her an ad for a Colt SP-1. Oh the eye roll she gave. But a few weeks later, after making sure I wouldn’t change my mind, when she was having a decent afternoon, we went down to the gun store, and bought one. I was a happy camper. It sure took awhile to get used to though, the Mickey Mouse rifle. The old timer behind the counter had shown me how to field strip it. He took me out to the range behind the store hand taught me how to shoot it. He helped me get it sighted in. Wonderful man. Shame he died. As I grew I got better with it. A lot better. Whenever I had a little extra money, I’d stop by the grocery store, and buy a couple of water melons, those 55 grain FMJ .223 Remington’s made them explode.
I was six teen, when I stopped by the gas station on the way from from work one night. I found the attendant. He was a boy, my age. His stomach was ventilated. He was dead. I did the right thing, called the Sheriff. They said later he got six .38spl wadcutters in his belly. And naturally the register was emptied. They never did arrest anyone for that.
Mom got so shook she told me I needed to start carrying a gun. I never had much interest in handguns. She told me she’d buy me anything… Within reason. WITHIN REASON. I wasn’t gonna say no to a new gun. So I settled on a S&W Model 64 snub nose. I’d never seen a stainless handgun. And I liked that my Colt SP-1 was nearly rust proof, so, why not a handgun too?
I got good with that snubby. Kept it loaded with wadcutters. I wore it in a shoulder holster. I kept two speed strips in my pockets. It wasn’t hard to wear, since I always had a jacket or coat on, no matter the season. Now was this legal? No. But I kept to myself, and no one made a stink, if they noticed a bulge or caught a glimpse.
Then the day came. I was working in the plant, driving the forklift, loading tractor trailers full of feed. There was a girl who worked in the office. She’s was a looker. For some reason she liked me. No, don’t get excited, she didn’t like me that much.
She flagged me down. I had a bad feeling the second I saw her. Way down deep in my gut, like a sixth sense. Things were going south. She told me to come up to the main office. So I went up with her, and she closed the door to an empty little office.
“Your mom called.”
I just nodded.
She leaned in close and whispered nervously,
“They came to the house, looking for you. They’re gonna arrest you for not showing up to the draft board.”
I just nodded again, and looked over her shoulder, out through the windows of that little office, wondering if the G-Men would show up there. It was a good day to pull an extra shift. Normally it would’ve been my day off.
“Thank you.” I said. I meant it.
“What will you do?” She asked.
“I won’t be drafted.” I said. “Thank you.” And I walked out of the office.
(That’s all for today. There will be a Part 2, soon. Equip, train, pray and never disarm.)
Leave a Reply