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.
Matt Barber is founder and editor-in chief of BarbWire.com. He is an author, columnist, cultural analyst and an attorney concentrating in constitutional law. Having retired as an undefeated heavyweight professional boxer, Matt has taken his fight from the ring to the culture war. (Follow Matt on Twitter: @jmattbarber).
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