Air rifles. Oh my. The sense of power that surges through your little human body on purely handling a gun is ridiculous. I felt like I was re-enacting a scene from Splintercell (an Xbox game for all you civilised, sensible people that have better things to do with your time than play make-believe through a screen). For some reason it was a great idea at the time to handle a fire-arm when intoxicated. The few glasses of red wine calmed the nerves and made my hand nicely steady in order to aim precisely. I shattered a glass bottle from what felt like 100 metres away. Boom. Into the earth. Shortly followed by three cans of unidentifiable beer. Straight through the heart of the metal. Boom. Boom. Boom. This lasted for about half an hour -- this scary, but electrifying feeling of euphoria. I'd make a great game-keeper. Or an amazing American.
Then weirdly the wine kept disappearing....(down my throat)...and the more I drank the shitter I became at aiming. This was the unfortunate moment that the war wound appeared. Now I'd LOVE to say that the wound was due to my skin being penetrated by a pellet. I'd love to say that the burning scar I've now been sporting on my cheek for the past two hours was down to a scramble with a poorly aimed bullet. But no. I'm not that hardcore. The truth is, as I sat down to regain my composure and bent over to reach that god-forsaken glass of red wine, the gun that was propped precariously up against my chair....slid . It scraped the life out of my skin. And that was how I received, in a lovely beaten-wife fashion, the scar upon my face.
1 comment:
eeeerh my gosh, (not that I'm a stalker commenting about 2 seconds after you posted) but this is TOO cool! Look at you the little gun woman. -as long as exhilaration doesn't lead you to hide one under your bed like the mental americans.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Post a Comment