A pretty, young, auburn-haired woman – mid-20s – drove down a lonely country road somewhere in Oklahoma. Appearing in her rearview mirror, at the back windshield, were two menacing orbs of light floating amid ashen dusk. The guttural roar of a souped-up big block shook the tiny Volkswagen Rabbit as a van-load of inbred thugs lurched left and drew alongside her. A ponytailed passenger taunted inaudibly and blew foul kisses between crude hand gestures. He pointed for her to pull over as the van repeatedly swerved dangerously close.
Inside the car a man, asleep in the reclining passenger seat, was startled awake by the commotion. He rose and darted his head about, calmly assessing the situation. This only spurred the evil-bent goons. As they ramped-up efforts to run the car off the road, the man reached in the glove box, withdrew a military-grade, semi-automatic handgun – an “assault weapon,” if you will – and, with intentionality and great theatre, leaned across his young bride, pointing the gun out the open bay and directly between dirt bag’s booze-flushed eyes.
Van vanished amid a plume of gray smoke as wheels locked, tires screeched and “assault vehicle” fishtailed – jerking to a halt with taillights aglow skyward from the ditch.
Not a shot was fired.
Back at the couple’s rural farmhouse, two boys – boys who would not be orphaned that night – played. We most likely played – my brother Pete and I – with assault rifles fashioned from sticks. I always love to hear Dad retell the story. He does it with an ornery, satisfied grin. “No one’s taking my guns,” he’ll say.
This might be a good time for me to add that no one’s taking my guns either. Period. And if Dianne Feinstein orders me from her lofty perch on the left-coast to retroactively register them with some federal autocracy, I think I might just forget I even have them. Tens of millions of law-abiding, God-fearing Americans just like me and Dad, I suspect, feel the same way.
I love guns. Grew up with ‘em. As a former police officer with 12 years in the U.S. military, I know how to use them, too – use them well. I plan to buy more – a bunch more. In fact, who’s to say I don’t already have a veritable arsenal?
Point is, tain’t Big Brother Barack’s nor any other candy-keistered-liberal-cream-puff’s bloody business whether I do or not.
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