It was a night just like any other: Jay, O’Brien, Miles and Ol’ Bullseye gathered at O’Brien’s house to celebrate after a long day of tedious, joint-crushing work. The crew seemed to have nothing but a few hours of unadulterated enjoyment ahead of them; all of the essential elements were in place: alcohol, friends, familiar surroundings, and, of course, a suitable musical background. No one could have predicted the ordeal which was about to unfold.
O’Brien’s wife, Jewel, greeted the crew as they entered the house. Her love of a neat, tranquil domestic environment was temporarily overcome by the desire to share a good time with the guys.
“How ‘bout that pitch, huh? We’re gonna have to start chargin’ more for these really steep roofs, my knees just can’t take it,” O’Brien said as he poured the first round of shots in the kitchen.
Everybody nodded in agreement as they searched for their respective chasers of choice. The crew huddled together and clinked glasses before tossing the shots down their hatches.
“You said it, O’Brien,” Miles agreed. “We’re totally gettin’ screwed.”
The crew chatted in the kitchen for the next hour or so, laughing, sharing stories, and commenting on the ups and downs of the workday. The group drank a few more rounds before the bottle was finished; everybody then migrated to the living room. Miles flipped on the flat-screen television and turned the stereo to near maximum volume.
“You’re gonna bother the whole neighborhood if you keep it that high!” O’Brien warned.
“It doesn’t matter,” Miles responded. “If they have a problem they can take it up with me!”
Things continued normally for the next fifteen minutes until the crew’s party was interrupted by several loud, unmistakable thumps at the door. O’Brien’s prediction proved correct: behind the door stood the next-door neighbors, Ben and Scarlett. The music was so loud it muffled out the television program they were watching; they weren’t upset though: they decided to join the group for the duration of the party.
“I think it’s time for a smoke,” Ol’ Bullseye remarked. “Plus, we’ve got business to take care of.”
The four workers walked through the kitchen and opened the door to the garage. O’Brien passed out cigarettes and handed the lighter around. The group puffed cigarettes and made conversation for several minutes until Ol’ Bullseye shifted all of the attention toward him; he reached down into his pocket and, after fumbling over numerous items, grabbed a small capsule. The capsule appeared to contain about a dozen pills of various colors; he picked up three pills and then displayed them in his open palm for the group to look at.
“It’s time to take this thing to the next level,” Ol’ Bullseye said.
Miles responded immediately by snatching one of the pills and swallowing it without the slightest bit of hesitation. O’Brien held back, alternating his gaze between Ol’ Bullseye and the pill which seemed to be chosen for him. He was clearly reluctant to follow Miles’s lead; evidently, a few tugs of encouragement were needed to get him to participate.
Miles noticed O’Brien’s lack of enthusiasm and acted accordingly. “Oh, c’mon man, this is the good stuff! There’s nothing to fear; you need to let go, man,” he said.
O’Brien was clearly not convinced; he maintained a look of disinterestedness both during and after Miles’s speech.
Ol’ Bullseye attempted to supplement Miles’s remarks with his own words of persuasion. “Miles is right, this stuff is awesome; c’mon, don’t you want this to be a really good night?”
O’Brien’s wall of resistance was brought down. He reached down, pinched the pill with his thumb and index finger, and then threw it into his mouth. A firm smile developed on his face almost instantly; whatever reservations he may have had were now thoroughly buried beneath feelings of intense merriment.
“You won’t regret this, I swear,” Miles cheered.
The four of them waddled slowly back toward the living room and met the remaining three members of the party. The whole crowd pressed forward into the night, singing, passing in and out of various discussions, and delighting in the overall feeling of the moment. Ol’ Bullseye sat down in the cushioned rocking chair next to the television and turned to Jay. “Man, you should come with me and get some more stuff; my friend has the best stuff around, we should take my van to his house.”
Ol’ Bullseye’s voice and appearance revealed a person with temporarily impaired faculties; it would have seemed to any honest observer that in his condition he would make a less than totally competent motorist. Nevertheless, after informing the other members of their intentions, both Ol’ Bullseye and Jay walked out of the house and entered Ol’ Bullseye’s van. The two were accompanied by Ol’ Bullseye’s cat, who managed to jump into the side door before it could be closed. Before he could put his keys into the ignition, Ol’ Bullseye recalled a forgotten thought.
“Oh yeah! I forgot to tell you, I brought my gun with me; it’s right here in the glove compartment,” he said.
Ol’ Bullseye reached across the passenger seat and pulled out a small pistol which had been wedged in between a number of personal documents and several hand tools. He folded his hand around the gun until it formed a shooting grip and then laid the gun next to his leg.
“You didn’t know about this, huh?” Ol’ Bullseye asked. “I’ve had it for awhile. It’s my baby.”
Jay’s face featured an awkward expression; it contained feelings of fear and curiosity in near equal measure. Being keenly aware of Ol’ Bullseye’s condition, he chose to offer a cautionary remark before anything else.
“The safety is on, right?” Jay’s voice was frank and distant; he sounded similar to a judge delivering a prison sentence.
“Oh, of course,” Ol’ Bullseye replied. “This gun actually has two safeties.”
Jay’s anxiety was momentarily stalled. Ol’ Bullseye then fiddled with the gun for a few seconds, apparently trying to make certain that the gun was in fact incapable of firing. Subsequently, he gripped the gun as he did before and pointed it toward his opposite hand; having convinced himself that the safety was functional, he squeezed the trigger.
Boom!
Smoke filled the van as the gun fired with full force. The bullet blasted through Ol’ Bullseye’s hand and became lodged in his left knee. Both of them sat stunned, too mired in disbelief to say anything. Jay broke the silence after regaining his sense of composure.
“Are you okay?” His question was saturated with desperation.
“It went straight through; I need to go to the hospital!” Ol’ Bullseye replied.
The two workers rushed back into the house to alert the others. Ol’ Bullseye approached Miles and O’Brien and showed them his self-inflicted wound; he consciously avoided informing the other three members of the party about what had happened. Miles and O’Brien were catapulted into sobriety by the force of the situation. Miles and Ol’ Bullseye walked to the bathroom and wrapped Ol’ Bullseye’s hand with a roll of gauze taken from the cabinet above the sink.
“Keep putting pressure on it,” O’Brien said. “Try to keep blood from flowing.”
Ol’ Bullseye clutched his injury as he sauntered back out into the living room; Miles followed closely behind, his hand covering his mouth so as to stifle the sounds of chuckling.
“Don’t worry, man,” O’Brien assured. “We’ll get you to the hospital in no time.”
By now the remaining three members of the group had figured out what had happened. Emotions vacillated freely between sympathy, pity, and guilt-inducing pleasure. O’Brien, Miles and Ol’ Bullseye left the house and drove to the hospital; luckily for Ol’ Bullseye the hospital was located just a few minutes away. O’Brien led the trio and told the hospital administrator about Ol’ Bullseye’s situation; he put a rather substantial spin on the origin of the wound, however: he said that Ol’ Bullseye had been shot by several members of a local street-gang.
The trio sat quietly in one of the surgery rooms as they waited for the nurse to arrive; Ol’ Bullseye laid on the surgery bed, periodically emitting scarcely audible whimpers of pain and discomfort. O’Brien kept his eyes on Ol’ Bullseye, sporadically shaking his head in order to convey his irritation with Ol’ Bullseye’s behavior; Miles continued to find it extraordinarily difficult to conceal his level of amusement with the whole affair. After approximately ten minutes the nurse entered the room. She appeared to be quite young, likely no older than twenty-three. Though she had already been briefed by the administrator as to what had happened, she began to ask about the incident as she added an additional layer of gauze to Ol’ Bullseye’s injured hand.
“So someone shot you? That’s horrible!” Although not filled with overwhelming sympathy, there didn’t seem to be any trace of suspicion in her voice.
The nurse finished wrapping the wound with medical gauze and then gave Ol’ Bullseye a capsule of pain pills. She advised him to return to the hospital within the next few days to determine whether the bullet needed to be removed. Then, suddenly, just as the nurse was about release them, two officers of the local authorities opened the door of the surgery room.
“Hello, I’m officer Number One. We were told that the injury here occurred as a result of a crime. We need to ascertain a few things about the incident.” Officer Number One said.
The officers proceeded to interrogate the three of them on the details of what had occurred. The officers had been called in as a matter of protocol after the hospital administrator logged the false report fabricated by O’Brien. The trio regurgitated the false version of the incident to the officers. Needless to say, they were skeptical of the account.
“If you were shot from a distance, then how could the bullet cleanly penetrate your hand and then enter your knee? Are you saying you were shot multiple times?”
The trio came up with answers consistent with the fabricated version of what had happened. At one point Ol’ Bullseye even brought up the famous ‘Magic Bullet Theory’ to remind the officers of the fascinating range of possibilities permitted by the laws of physics. Though obviously not convinced of the veracity of the fabricated story, the officers eventually left after realizing the fruitlessness of asking any further questions. The trio then left the hospital and drove back to O’Brien’s house.
Ol’ Bullseye eventually recovered from the injury, although the bullet was never extracted from his knee. The bullet lives on deep within Ol’ Bullseye’s flesh, forever serving as a constant reminder of his profound abilities with firearms.
To this day, the creature deserving of the greatest sympathy is the cat: one can only imagine the kind of damage a firearm can do to feline eardrums.
Cross-posted at Lost Historian.
{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
Is there a point to this story? Oh, and shotguns don’t shoot bullets.
Wasting space again? This story is neither interesting, informative, insighful, revealing, poignant, nor educational. It’s just a confirmation of the rabid stupidity of rednecks with firearms. I think it actually made me drop an IQ point having read it. Hyuk.
It’s time to fix your blog and get of the worthless content
Can I be a wuss here?
I have considered the notion of owning a firearm – in essence, solely and only to exert my Second Amendment rights, as a citizen of the USA, to own a gun – but I’ve put it off, again and again, because I am a “responsible” sort of guy who cannot actually visualize myself as ever needing a firearm.
Why, in the name of All, would I want to subject myself – even at the drunkest I’ve been, which ain’t seldom – to the embarrassment of shooting myself with my own 9mm or 38-Special or whateverthehell caliber I might choose?
There is a side of me that would like to “qualify with a firearm”. I kinda wish the Defense Assistance Office in Colombia had asked for me to teach my cartography course there, during the time-frame that they were requiring TDY’ers to qualify first with the 9MM Beretta. But … if I follow my dreams and “sail away” – 95% of the countries I might visit would take it SERIOUSLY amiss were I to show up with a firearm.
I quite enjoyed this post. It’s refreshing to have a story for story’s sake, rather than something with a meaning or moral. People search for meaning too much, they can’t just appreciate mild, trivial entertainment.