You can find Part One here.
Reporting from my fortified compound outside of Aspen, Colorado…
Just then, the second trip wire went off, leaving me with a sever case of tinnitus, and alerting us that the barbarians were nearly at the gate. At least the sound finally stirred Bill from his somnambulant state. He jumped up with a start, clutching the Remington bolt-action rifle he’d taken to bed with him the night before like a little child does a security blanket.
“Good God, these fuckers are stealthy!” I yelled at Bill. “Quick, I’ve got the door, you get up to the second floor and scout out what we’re up against.”
Bill rushed up the stairs, tripping only twice on his way to the guest bedroom that gave him a sniper’s view of the front of my property. I stood with my back to the door awaiting the feds to offer their terms. There are moments in your life when your back is against the wall (in my case it literally was this time), and you have to decide whether to surrender or fight. As I stood there, preparing for a full-on assault by the Federales, I went over the scenarios in my head. Was this the way I wanted to go down? Would this be my Alamo, my Butch and Sundance last stand? I waited, breathlessly, for the sound of boots on the ground and flash grenades popping through my window. Instead, I was met with the ringing of the doorbell and something completely unexpected.
I peaked out through the window only to find two people dressed far too properly to be feds. It was an older black couple wearing their Sunday best. Certainly not the kind of subterfuge I was expecting. Nonetheless, my guard on high, I answered the door, ready for whatever was in store.
“Good morning, sir,” the lady began, “and a blessed morning it is.”
Who the fuck were these people? Didn’t they know they were about to be caught in the crosshairs of one of the great shootouts of modern times? How had they gotten past what I could only assume was a massive and heavily guarded blockade that must have been up around my property by now? Despite their appearances, I knew they must be agents of my adversaries.
“Have you heard the good news?” she asked.
“Pardon?” I responded.
“The good news. That Jesus loves you and died for your sins.”
“What is this crap?” I said as I pulled out the Gloch I’d kept tucked in the waistband of my pajama pants. “Do you know who you’re dealing with, you zealots?”
At this point they both looked pretty stupefied, but the man at least had the wherewithal to do something.
“This is no way to treat children of the Lord, sir. I don’t know who you think we are, but we pose no threat. Quite the opposite. We are here to save you, to bring you into the light of the Lord.”
I don’t know whether it was the paranoia, the drugs and alcohol from the night before, or the adrenaline rush you get from holding a fully loaded, high-powered weapon in your hands, but my response was less than courteous. “Get the hell off my land before I shine the light of the Lord through you one bullet hole at a time,” I snarled.
This seemed to be enough to deter them from their redemptive mission, as they both turned tail and made their back down the driveway as fast as they possibly could. Bill came stumbling down the stairs a few second later.
“Close one,” he rasped. “Are you sure they weren’t G-men? Those bastards can be mighty sly sometimes.”
“I doubt it, Bill. We all know the government is full of godless, pinko, paper shuffling sons of bitches, and those two seemed a bit too devout to have come from that kind of an outfit. I think our best course of action is to settle back in and wait for the real assault. I’m sure it will be here any time now.”
So that’s what we did. We sat back on the couch and turned on whatever college basketball game was being featured that afternoon. A six-pack later, halftime came around and Bill suggested we search the news to see if there was any word about the imminent federal crackdown. Figuring we’d be met with bleak news of a scad of new anti-gun measures, we instead saw something that neither of us could believe. Our heroes, the Republican party and its various pro-gun subsidiaries, were all over the airwaves saying things like, “Now is not the time to discuss gun restrictions,” and, “This is a free country, the Founders meant for us to have responsible gun ownership,” and, from one shorter, red-haired, ten-gallon hat wearing, long-mustachioed gentleman, a “Yee-hoo!” followed by him firing his six-shooters up into the air in rapid succession.
We were flabbergasted. I mean, if the senseless shooting of twenty elementary school students and eight of there teachers/administrators wasn’t enough to raise a unifying national rallying cry for much more stringent gun laws, what would? We simply assumed that after the unrelenting incidences of mass shootings in public that have taken place over the past five years, or twenty years depending on how you look at it, the American people would have finally had enough and been able to band together to stop people like Bill and I from having access to dangerous weapons that can easily be turned into mass killing machines. You would think.
Alas, that didn’t appear to be true. Hell, we hadn’t even been visited by the local police in response to our shooting at what I must now admit was probably my real postman, or the high-strung, armed welcome we gave to the Jehovah’s Witnesses who’d come to visit us earlier that day. Nothing. Apparently, in this country, in this day and age, it takes a lot more than a few bullets flying and a few devastated families to raise people’s hackles about guns. Hallelujah, Freedom!