I was in Stephanville, Texas the other day, and I'd gotten a nice Bacon Ranch Monster Taco and a Coke to wash it down, and I sat down to eat and enjoy the air conditioning, and I laid out my meal, and slapped my Glock 17 9 mm short-recoil-operated locked breech semi-automatic pistol on the table, and I thought I was in heaven, with that taco and my Glock there-- food for my belly and food for my soul-- and I praised the Lord and only when I glanced around did I notice that something was wrong.
I'd heard little whimpers and my peripheral vision had caught the movement all around but it had been stealthy movement, so only when I glanced around did I notice the abandoned burgers and whatnot on the tables, and the mom's running outside with their children in their arms, and dad's behind them, sheltering them, or ahead of them, already in the driver's seat of their cars. Then I saw employees of the very same Jack in the Box in which I had been savoring my good fortune sprinting out the doors. Why, I even saw that pleasant young lady who had served up my taco running with fear on her face and tears in her eyes.
Now, I am a veteran, the reader should understand, so I am prepared for these kinds of things at all times. And as a firearms owner, I mentally run it through my mind how I will react to situations like this. I drill myself constantly, asking myself questions like, "If they come in through the window, where is it best to place my Glock so that I can get it quickly and discharge the weapon?" or, "If they come in at night and I am sleeping, is it best to have my Glock loaded and under my pillow?" or even, "If I am having a monster taco at Jack in the Box, where is the best place to sit so I can see when they come in to rob the place or to do a mass shooting"? And having rehearsed that particular question in my mind a dozen times, and answered it, I was now seated in that very spot-- yet, I did not see the armed gunman who had come in to commit his foul deed, and who had caused everyone to run for their lives.
I picked up my Glock and held it gently in my right hand while using my left palm to support the weapon from beneath its handle. I crouched and scanned the empty restaurant. Where was the bastard? I felt myself flush with... fear? No. Adrenalin. Adrenalin tempered by the knowledge that I had my weapon. I had trained with it for this very moment. It was up to me. It was all up to me. I stood just for a moment to wave to a few people in the parking lot, who were peering from behind cars. I wanted to let them know they were safe, that I had everything under control. I wondered how many of them were gun control liberals, and I wondered if they would change their minds now.
There was a noise on my right, movement, a door. I swung towards it and discharged my Glock, all 28 rounds from my G17 magazine. There was silence after the eight second barrage. I was sure I had got him. Then, a whimper.
"I surrender! I surrender!" a voice called out from behind the waste bins. I knew by the voice that the bastard was scared. I ejected my clip and inserted my smaller 10 round reserve clip. I chambered a round and I cautiously approached the waste bins, weapon extended, finger on the trigger.
"Please don't shoot me," said the coward.
"Slide your weapon out across the floor," I said evenly.
"I haven't got a weapon," he said with a trembling voice. Yeah, right, I thought.
"SLIDE YOUR FUCKING WEAPON ACROSS THE FLOOR NOW OR YOU'RE DEAD!" I said.
Then he began to sob like a baby.
"It's me, it's me..." he said.
What was that supposed to mean-- It's me. Who?
Then, the sirens. As always, the cops are way too late, I thought. This is why, I thought-- this is why we have our right to bear arms.
Then, two furry arms raised high above the waste bins.
"I surrender," said the sobbing voice. "It's me, Simeon, don't shoot."
"Simeon?" I asked.
And Simeon's chimp head appeared from behind the bins.
"It's me," he said.
"Simeon!" I shouted. "Get down! There's a gunman in this place! Get out! Get out now!"
"It's you," he said, almost crying. "You. You are the gunman."
"What? Are you deluded?" I asked.
Then the police barged in with their own drawn weapons. And they were pointing them at me.
Sigh.
What is the matter with these people?
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