Sometimes It’s A Gun (An Index Card Novel)
The poor fat old white guy injineer had his home. Modest. Unpretentious. He prepped as best he could. He wasn’t handy. He wasn’t Supreman, Batman, or even Robin. And, certainly not rich. No Caddie survivalist; he had some food, water, and weapons put aside. He provided for his extended family as best he could. His big concern was the Golden Horde overwhelming them. It was truly something he could do something about. After all he was a smart injineer.
It started with a hunting cart, a gas cylinder, and a memory of how one of his long passed uncle’s neighbors scared crows. Controlled gas explosions directed by a tube. When the birds became to accustomed to it, a self-adjusting valve changed the pitch. From Boom to Bang.
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The S did hit the F. His extended family assembled at his “retreat”. Stuff was working out for them. The the MZBs began to circle. Conventional rifles drove off the scouts. That scared the poor fat old white guy into action. He rolled out his Domesday weapon. Their lives would depend upon an untested after thought memory of times past.
He handed out make shift Darth Vader helmets and foam temporary ear plugs. The teenagers thought it was dumb; the younger boys were kool with it. The babies were hard. Eventually everyone was protected.
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The local gang linked with two neighboring gangs with promising a “fat target” with women and girls. It was an easy sell. They gathered up for a straight bull rush up the dead end street and driveway. There was a little gas grill at the head of the driveway. Unconcerned, the rush was on. There was no firing from the house or grounds. Perhaps they residents had evacuated.
Half way up the driveway, they heard a small bang. Then, a HUGE one. At two meter intervals in the attacking mob, men and women collapsed with blood streaming from their ears. At five meter intervals, eyes exploded outward as interocular pressure surge in harmonic resonance. In the twenty five meter arc, attackers collapsed like pole axed from strokes caused by rupturing cranial blood vessels.
It was over in minutes. Those retreating blundered right into killing zones. When the “weapon” ran out of gas, (it had no shut off) the poor fat old white guy emerged from the house and switched to the alternative cylinder and was ready for another wave. He replaced the empty propane grill cylinder. There were a dozen ready to grill or defend. He looked at the bodies and wondered how he’d clean them all up. Guess his supply of garbage bags would have to be body bags.
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Eventually, order was restored. The “authorities” came to investigate how three gangs were wiped out by one household. They were looking, of course, for “weapons violations”. There had to be automatic weapons to be seized.
As they walked the street, it was interesting that arcs had been created bulging in the asphalt. They arrested everyone in the house. Even babies. For officer safety, of course. Their search went on for several days. Even to the point of bringing in metal detectors. Other than a few odd casings, they found nothing.
Autopsies of the “victims” showed no bullet wounds and that many had died of “natual causes”. The “authorities” were mystified. The residents were released. With out apology or comment. But with a warning, that the “authorities” would be watching them. Their guns were not returned.
The poor fat old white guy went back to his home. Amused, but safe. And, he still had his “gas grill”. He wondered if he could make it portable. Holster-able?
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