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| panda-like calm through fiction | |||||||||
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Bull Moose
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I’m writing a book because I’m tired of being misquoted and mischaracterized by liberal media elites. Maybe that’s unfair; I’m a lawyer with high-level ties to government, and your house would probably fit in my garage- it doesn’t get much more elite than that. But at least I’m not a liberal.
I’m going to skip over my boring childhood, the awkward coming of age masturbation stories, even my probably better left to Penthouse Letters college and law school years. I was born Warren Arthur Reid. I drive a big red hummer with a personalized plate with my initials on it. We’ll start with a story in the Alaskan wilderness. I’m there with a couple of Russians, city boys, by how poorly they keep up. I usually carry a .454 Casull Ruger Super Redhawk- the snub nosed Alaskan for concealed carry, the 7.5” barrel for hunting- but this was a business trip. I had to convince these Russians that this particular rifle was worth their time. One of them gets caught in a tree branch, Yuri, I think was his name, and starts swearing up a storm in Russian. I shush him, and point to the bull moose just on the other side of some brush. He gets pissy, and shoots me a glare that reminds me that the difference between the Russian mafia and their intelligence services is only in who cuts the checks. “Fall is hunting season, but it’s also mating season,” I explain. “No moose is making me his bitch,” he says, and adjusts his coat. “During mating season, bull moose are very aggressive. They’re responsible for more attacks than bears and wolves combined.” That shuts him up; it’s technically true, too, but moose attacks tend to be milder- unless you’re unlucky. I hold up the rifle to let them get a look of it. “This is similar to one of Barrett’s 25 mm rifles, only it’s newer and therefore less tightly regulated, and shit, you’re here because you know the Dragunov’s a pussy’s weapon.” Yuri’s friend, whose name I couldn’t remember but I called Boris in my head says in a loud whisper, “We’re here looking for Anatoli.” “Right, well, Alaskan Arms are a very loyal client of mine, who happen to have pretty well-placed people who think they might have found your man. But in exchange, they want to see orders for the BMK.” I sight the bull moose in. “I’m sorry, perhaps my English is not so good, but BMK?” “Bull moose killer. I came up with that- now if you’ll excuse me.” I do like my daddy taught me, and squeeze the trigger while I exhale, slow and even. The moose shudders, and drops. “See, the thing is, Alaskan Arms is a newer company, trying to build up a reputation. Colt and Barrett have the US by the prostate, which is fine, because even SFOD-Delta are a little too cuddly these days. But word gets out that the Spetsnaz and KGB have put in an order for AA rifles, and suddenly everyone who needs to kill something a mile away takes notice.” Boris spoke, low and fast, in Russian. “Stupid pig-fuck American thinks Spetsnaz is name of special forces.” Both men chortled. I responded in their native tongue: “If you’d taken your mind off lovingly suckling your friend’s scrotum, you’d have understood that selling guns to ‘elite’ soldiers is the point- not specifically name-checking elite groups from the FSB or the GRU- and that I speak Russian.” He tried to stare bullet holes in me, and when that didn’t work he said, “There is no longer KGB.” “And I don’t know the taste of a 16 year old Prom Queen’s asshole.” He stared. They were fresh off a plane, so they probably weren’t armed, but the way he glared I thought he might rush me for the rifle. Then he laughed. “You are okay,” he said in shattered English. I didn’t let my relief show, just went back to the sale. “We’re not here to talk about the past. You’re allies.” I turned, pointed the rifle at the both of them (actually, at the ground in front of them- safety first). “Fuck, I thought you Russian bastards would use these on Americans or Alaskans I’d put a bullet in each of you sure as look at you.” I lowered the gun, handed it to Yuri. “But it’s a new world, and you have bigger fish to fry. I know you’ll use these like a responsible, capitalist country, on folks who deserve it. Like if Georgia’s britches get too big again, or Muslim Chechens, the Chinese, if they turn their wandering eyes to your eastern flank, or Iran, they step a toe too far out of line.” “And for this, you give us Anatoli?” “No. For this I give you a contact at Alaskan Arms’ security department.” I handed Boris a business card. “Now either of you know how to field dress a moose?” To Yuri’s credit, he only puked once; Boris is a pseudonym anyway, so no point in pretending he didn’t vomit half a dozen times. He even made a half-hearted attempt to wander off and find his own way back to civilization, only to return, sheepish, fifteen minutes later, and by the smell off him he’d fallen into some bear shit. Anatoli, in case you’re worried, was wayward FSB. Alaskan Arms had flagged him a while back for trying to get in good with local government, especially anybody with a window into the pipeline. He claimed to be working for a Russian weapons company that was an FSB front- but they said they’d never heard of him. Nobody quite knew what he was up to or who he was working with, but if his old bosses sent Yuri and Boris for him it was probably no good. Now don’t put yourself to too much effort analyzing this; I don’t include the anecdote as a metaphor or as anything more than a day in my normal life, twelve billable hours of it, anyway. It’s a snapshot of me, perfectly excerptable for those of you who were on the fence about getting my book. But I’ve worked with enough juries to know that no story gets told episodically; eventually an audience’s attention just wanders away if the story isn’t making enough progress. So here’s the central conflict: I want to be President. Not of the USA- I’m a man of too much integrity for that level of politicking. No, I’m talking about something I love far more than America herself: the NRBAS. For those poor bastards among you stuck in a city, that’s the National Right to Bear Arms Society. The NRA? Bunch of centrist hacks. In rural America, the NRBAS’re the ones who actually hunt and fish and take their second amendment rights seriously. I’ve been on their board for ten years, been a Vice President of the organization for three. The current President is an old man, and we tend to think he’ll die in his chair- but also that it’ll be sooner rather than later. I’m antsy, too, because a new player named Auric is trying to push a few of us out for being too moderate. Just last year I got into a screaming match with Chuck Heston, and would have punched him in the face if Tom Selleck hadn’t gotten between us- and even then I called Magnum a Goddamned pussy for refusing to slug it out- I told him he could have Heston if he liked the odds better. There’s a tiny bit of me wishes we could settle the business with Auric with a duel, but mostly cause I think he’s a believer, not a bearer- and I don’t think he’d hit the broad side of a mountain. Or maybe I hate Auric because he’s a slimy bastard, and I prefer to think of myself in the mold of Roosevelt, who responded to a challenge for a duel politely requesting diplomacy, but ended with, “I too, as you know, am always on hand, and ever ready to hold myself accountable in any way for anything I have said or done.” My phone makes a noise. I’ve gotten a twit from Tweeter, telling me to check Facebook. I’ve got a case in the morning- a buddy of mine in the Air Force, Ollie Nier, got told he can’t put personalized plates on his truck, but I’m supposed to have dinner with Sarah- and you don’t cancel dinner with the governor. I navigate to Facebook, which is at least more discreet than sending a text like used to be her habit, canceling our dinner reservation. So I meet her in the usual place. She’s a creature of habit, meets me in the lobby and tells a variation on her usual joke about the room service steaks being better here anyway. I like meat, sue me (though I do intuit impending legislation from my cardiovascular system over the matter). I should feel worse than I do. She’s a wife, and a mother several times over, but I can’t. I’ve tried to feel more Catholically guilty over it, but ours is a far more adult relationship than theirs is. Terry married his high school sweet heart, and is pretty much the exact same man today. Sarah is… different. Evolving and intense. It isn’t about the sex. She’s an attractive enough woman, but if that were all it was, there are plenty of single women in this state. But there’s only one Sarah. I think a part of my fascination is with the changes in her. When I met her she wasn’t Misses anything, yet, though she’s always loved Terry. But she’s always been smarter than him, more ambitious. She spent a lot of time settling, but she isn’t willing to anymore. I think Governor is just a pit stop to whoever she’s becoming. But right now she’s warm, and soft, deceptively strong, sweaty and smiling at me. I think she’s about to ask me to get a bottle of champagne, or see about taking a shower. “I… want to nominate you for the state Attorney General.” “Was the sex really that bad? And if you’re determined to punish me, a riding crop certainly sounds more fun.” “We need you.” “You want me. And you want a plausible excuse for late night meetings with me.” “Stop lawyering me. I mean it.” She presses herself against me, and the world seems to spin. She’s a God-damned politician, and I’d lay my fees for a year that she’s politicking me, but one look in those big brown eyes and the firelight in them and I know I couldn’t ever say no to her. |
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