Just Squeeze The Trigger

Yesterday was the last day of a two day meeting I held for my team in Massachusetts and we had planned to celebrate with a little teambuilding. This was to involve getting together with a few of the managers at the plant and engaging in some trigger therapy at the local Smith & Wesson shooting range. The plant manager offered to bring his toys, which I’d heard were excellent and included a .44 Magnum which would attempt to take off your fucking arm when you fired it.

So at 5:15 we left the meeting for the allegedly ten minute drive to the range. Glen was driving us in a rented minivan (a spectacularly plasticky Kia) and claimed to know the way. He had his hand-held GPS as a standby but I’m not sure why, because the first time it told him to turn around he ignored it. Consequently we found ourselves being directed towards a bridge which we needed to cross to get back on track but which was in fact comprehensively closed (with full complement of cones, flashing lights and workmen with exposed arse cracks). We’d faced this obstacle earlier in the week but then we’d had someone in the van who knew the area and could direct us. Now we were hopelessly fucked. And late for our shooting.

We tried a couple of routes but just ended up at the bridge again. Aha! The GPS! Glen consulted it once more and set off on a roundabout route, diligently following its directions for about ten minutes until it faithfully dumped us back at the bridge. Which was still closed. At this point the mild-mannered Glen erupted in a volley of abuse: “I don’t fucking believe it. Fuck it. We’re back at the fucking bridge again.” It was like Groundhog Day, only with orange barrels. I suggested he renounce his masculinity and ask for directions at a gas station. We were quickly provided with directions and rendezvoused with the rest of our group at the S&W range.

We signed three separate forms, provided two types of ID and received protective equipment and then went into the range where some of the group were already shooting. One gun was sitting in its case waiting to be used in an open firing lane. It was the .44, fitted with a scope. I sent the target out to the first position and loaded the revolver with six very large rounds. Having not fired a gun for literally years, and only once in the last thirteen, I was somewhat concerned that I might have lost the knack and would show myself up by missing the target completely, or something similarly shit. (Back in the UK I owned a very nice S&W .357 Magnum, before all the legal guns had to be handed in so that only criminals could own one – note how much gun crime has soared since then, all you weak-minded, knee-jerk political fuckstains. Ironically I had to give it up when I came to the US, not being a citizen.) I sighted on the black circle squeezed the trigger and the hand-cannon exploded. It was a wonderful toy, although the full-load ammunition was not really required for punching holes in paper. All six went in the black, but I couldn’t see this until I got the target back, leading me to wonder if I’d hit it at all.

We shot about five other handguns and my favorite was a semiautomatic S&W .38 Super. We had a small competition to see who could shoot the tightest group at 25 and 50 feet with whatever gun you felt happiest using and I chose that one. Apparently shooting is like riding a bike, or wanking, in that it’s not a skill you lose once acquired, and British pride was upheld as I walked off with the substantial first prize (a Smith & Wesson hat). God help the burglar who comes to my house, provided that he wears a black circle and brings me a gun…

We then headed off for an excellent barbecue dinner. Before we left I suggested to Glen that if he taped his GPS to the target and sent it down the range to 25 feet I’d happily put it out of its misery for him. He declined my offer – maybe he’s going soft. Or maybe he just really likes visiting that bridge.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison