24 February 2012


My hands smell like metal, despite the fact that I washed them thrice after I got home.

Some of my fighting class and my (former) kung fu class went to a shooting range tonight. We got a short lesson in How Not To Kill Yourself Or Others, and then we were lined up in the booths in the short range with various types of handguns in front of us.

I didn't quite arrive on time, because I had gotten stuck at work, so I didn't actually learn much of How Not To Kill Yourself Or Others, but I have a brain, and I've been taking fighting class for a year and a half now ("Line of fire! Line of fire!"), and I caught the part about how to unload the gun(s), so I was fine on that.

Less fine was the fact that I missed the basics of how a gun actually works. Only a few minutes after I arrived (late), I found myself in a little booth with an unloaded revolver and some bullets.

.357s, I think.

This was not quite like the single-shot shotguns I have fired, with Papa K. loading and handing me the gun.

I got the bullets into the gun, and the instructor told me, just as I did it wrong, to pick it up before I put the cylinder back into place.

But it all worked out, and after that revolver I shot two 9 mm semi-automatic handguns, and then two .22 caliber revolvers. One was tiny and light, with very little kick, and the other one was so heavy that my arms started to ache by the 10th round, but it had a laser scope, and it was quite thrilling to watch the bullets fly exactly where you pointed them.

For all of my bluster and bravado about these things, I was nervous with the first gun, which means it is probably good that I deal with them in the safe context of a shooting range instead of running into a gun someday in real life.

By the end they had to drag me away, kicking and screaming.

(Oh, I was just the last one shooting, scrounging up a last few unused bullets. Beg or borrow, not steal.)

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