Читать книгу An Ice Cream For Henry - Emanuele Cerquiglini - Страница 19

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T ed Burton drove his old Wrangler out of Jim’s repair shop at midday, and within an hour he had arrived in Jersey City to spend a few hours with his friends from the Firearms Academy. Sat outside the entrance as usual, basking in the sun, was Leland Wright. Leland was well into his seventies, but he had the complexion and look of a man fifteen years younger. He wore a Marines beret over his close-cropped white hair, a blue t-shirt bearing the inscription ‘ My girl is my gun’, gray camouflage pants, and black tactical boots.

“I thought you weren’t coming round here no more!” said Leland as Ted appeared before him.

“What do you say we have ourselves a little M4 battle?” replied Ted, grinning from ear to ear.

Leland looked at his friend and began to laugh as he stood up from his plastic chair.

“You old son of a bitch....wait here while I ask Charlie to come and replace me on the door,” replied Leland, pulling a two-way from his left pant pocket to call his friend.

Inside the Firearms Academy, it was far less crowded than on weekends, so the line for the range was fairly short. Next to the automatic-weapons counter was a prominent framed poster of Wayne LaPierre, Executive Vice President of the National Rifle Association.

“You want some mozzarella sticks?” Leland asked Ted.

“No thanks, chief. Maybe later. I only had breakfast an hour ago,” Ted replied, desperate to get his hands on the M4 assault rifle.

“Suit yourself, I’m gettin’ me some,” said Leland, making his way toward the huge bar.

Everyone greeted Leland with respect and, as Ted had done seconds earlier, called him “chief”. Little wonder his favorite t-shirt had the word emblazoned on it in big yellow letters. That was the tee Leland wore on weekends, when hundreds of gun-loving Americans and their families would descend on the Academy. Not everybody came to shoot or take a course on how to use firearms; the Academy was simply one of the favored hangouts of second-amendment fanatics. On Sundays, the Academy would play host to people of all ages, colors, and races, united in their disdain for Obama’s proposal to have Congress debate a law banning the use and purchase of automatic weapons.

“Come on, pal, come over here and join me for a beer!” yelled Leland in the direction of Ted, who was salivating at the prospect of feeling the M4A1 in his hands.

“I never say no to a beer!” Ted replied, making his way toward the bar.

Leland was chewing on the still piping hot mozzarella sticks, seemingly without burning his tongue or the roof of his mouth.

“Go on, have one...” he urged Ted, who didn’t need a second invitation and bit into one of the sticks, taking care not to burn his own mouth.

“Some Italian journalist came by on Sunday. You know, one of those ball-breaking conscientious objectors who think they’re smarter than everyone else. I spotted him straight away. He was like a fish out of water!”

“What did he want?” asked Ted.

“You know what Europeans are like: damn democrats hoping to speak to us and find out why we would possibly want to bear arms.”

“And did he interview you?”

“Sure. But if you’d been here, he’d have interviewed you as well,” replied Leland.

“What did he ask?”

“The usual bullshit about how gun ownership is linked to shootings in schools and stuff like that. I told him: ‘Guns don’t shoot themselves.’ If he’d just thought for a second about how many Americans own a gun, he’d have realized that by his reckoning the entire United States should be populated by the ghosts of people who’ve been shot just for fun. It pisses me off how people draw parallels between folk like us, who are simply defending the second amendment, and a few fucking screwballs. We’ve got more than three hundred million guns in circulation and they try to lecture us on morals! They can go fuck themselves!” Leland shouted, his face red with anger.

“I hope you ripped him a new one, chief. I can just picture that pussy journalist asking his questions, trying to get the moral high ground. Who the fuck are these Europeans anyway? Do you think any of them actually swear allegiance to that blue flag with the stars? I don’t know what the Brits are waiting for. They should just leave! They barely tolerate one another, they don’t even speak the same language for Christ’s sake! The only thing uniting them is that stupid currency, and that’s likely to fall below the dollar. Well, I say let them stay unarmed and ready to be fucked by some demented regime! Seems like they’ve already forgotten all their fucking dictators. They just don’t get how important the second amendment is. They see us as cowboys, but when they’re totally screwed by another crazed despot, they’ll be begging for our help...”

“Tell me about it. They squeal and we come running!”

“And I’ll tell you something else: I bet they’re sat there jerking off listening to Obama on TV, and they can’t wait to pin the blame on the United States when some crazy shit happens in the world!”

“You tell ‘em, Ted!” cried Leland, banging his fist on the bar.

“Look, chief, I won’t deny that at my age even I’m starting to think it might be sensible to restrict the sale of guns to civilians. Automatics, I mean. Only people with their heads screwed on and both their oars in the water should be allowed to own an automatic. Even better, why not limit them to people who have served in the military and sworn allegiance to the United States? Loyal people, patriots, people like us, Leland....” Ted said, and took a long sip of his beer.

“Sure, but people should always be ready to do whatever they have to do to protect themselves...”

“A decent pistol is more than good enough for protection. Some weapons should be reserved for war,” replied Ted, still caught up in the emotion of the discussion after Leland’s impassioned rant.

“Depends on who the enemy is, Ted. What’s the name of that spaghetti western where Clint Eastwood says: ‘ When a man with a .45 meets a man with a rifle, the man with a pistol will be a dead man’?”

“I didn’t know the Italians could make movies!” joked Ted, as Leland and the barman who had been listening to their conversation joined him in roaring with laughter.

“You’re a lowlife, Ted Burton, and I’ve always loved you for it, but I’m tellin’ you, that was a great movie!”

Ted and Leland quickly finished their beers and retrieved their assault rifles in readiness for their contest on the range.

“Hey look, Major, seems as though it’s on the house for you today,” Leland said, pointing at a sign that read: ‘Kids shoot free’.

“Thanks, granddad, but I don’t need a sign. I may be retired, but just looking at you makes me feel young,” replied Ted.

“What do you say we make this a little more interesting? Ten beers says you’ll be bawling like a baby when we compare our M4 scores,” Leland challenged Ted.

“You’re on, granddad. I’ll be beating you just because I don’t want to have to carry you home over my shoulder...” replied Ted, laughing as he followed his friend into the shooting area, his rifle slung over his shoulder and boxes of ammunition firmly in his grasp.