photo by Sheri Dixon

Thursday, January 16, 2014

What to Do When You Have the Flu

Oh, I know, I know all the 'drink plenty of fluids and get lots of rest' routine, and I did that- I promise. Just ask my family. I turned into a complete slug for about three weeks.

But at the same time...I finished the next installment of "Wyrd Justice- Weekends in Dystopia". This one's total gun porn, ya'll. And I mean that in the best possible way. Would I ever lie to you?

Wyrd Justice- Weekends in Dystopia:
Book Four- Don't Forget the Bullet Lube


Time seemed to stand still, just like in the movies.

He could hear the blood pounding in his own ears; imagined the never-ending coursing of the red fluid through his veins from one end of his body to the other, felt the pumping of his heart pushing it onward for another round, ever onward.

He wanted to remember this moment forever- the way the sunlight filtered and flashed through the leaves of the trees, turning everything in the forest into glitter and disco, simulated slow motion.

This was it.

All the years of training and practicing, thousands of rounds of ammo spent at the Range, and it all came down to this one shining moment.

A shadow fell over his thoughts just briefly, the very briefest of doubts…was this the right thing to do?

He shook his head in disgust with himself. This was not the time for thinking, and he was not a thinking man, no how.

He was Tig Carroll, born and raised right here in these woods, just like every generation before him were.
Short and wiry, lean and spare, Tig was the absolute spitting image of every other Carroll in the area, ever.

None of them had ever been accused of being big thinkers.

Good workers, hard drinkers, devout church-goers (They’d made a deal with the Almighty years ago- they’d attend church with their wimmen-folk on Sunday if He looked the other way the other days of the week. So far, so good), and all of them tits deep in the culture of the bible belt- the gun culture.

Tig felt the cool rough bark of the Loblolly pine against his cheek, his chest, his leg...steadying him for the shot.
He inhaled the good clean aroma of pine and sand, water and heat of the air that had filled his lungs for all of his 34 years- he’d never taken a breath outside of this county.

This was it.

He snugged the rifle butt even closer in than it already was, calming at the familiarity of it.
Out of all his collection, this was the one he’d chosen for today- because what other one would have been better for a stealth mission such as this?

Stealth was the name of the game with the BAR LongTrac Stalker.

This rugged and powerful auto-loading rifle was capable of delivering magnum-level power with pinpoint accuracy.
From its matte black alloy receiver and hammer-forged barrel to its multi-lug bolt, this BAR was ready to put rounds right on target over and over again, without pause.

The BAR LongTrac Stalker was the hunting rifle that set the bar for every other autoloader on the planet.

There was movement up ahead- his quarry came into sight, and Tig felt the pleasurable stirring in his loins that always preceded pulling the trigger.

That was only natural, right?

He pushed back the last shred of doubt and took a deep breath. This had to be done- the country was going to hell in a hand basket and this was the only thing that would fix it, no matter anyone’s personal feelings on the matter.

The President said so. The Preacher said so. God said so…according to the President and the Preacher.

He was a proud American and a good Christian and it was time.

This was it.

He sighted in on his prey, who just then turned his head and looked directly at him, without seeing him, and it registered just for a second that it was like looking into a mirror.

As he squeezed the trigger, Tig heard the voice of his old Sunday school teacher, Ms. Libby buzzing in his ear- lining up all the boys for a photograph and clucking, “You Carroll boys all look exactly alike, cut from the same cloth and all peas in a pod…”

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