It is of an evening, and I am finished, yet still my fingers live, like undead things, digging themselves out from my wrists, and devouring keys on my board. Searching for your brains.
Hey, my 1,000 rounds of Wolf copper-jacketed steel core ammo arrived today. You know how much that shit weighs? Yeah, 39 pounds. Feels like 100. Two things that are a bitch to move, a big-ass bag of dry dog food, and a big box of ammo.
Well, dead bodies come in there somewhere, but I rarely have a need to touch one any more.
And my 30 round mags came in today, too. What a fuckin bitch to load. Brand new polymer mags. Springs tight like a virgin. Had to load in 10 the night before, and then finish today. Beautiful mags. Got them from here. I can't recommend them enough. Buy everything you can before the election. We are bound to be fucked, whichever direction we turn. Damn, that was poetic. Now send me $80 so I can buy two more 30 rounders.
Doesn't it make you feel all warm and fuzzy to think of me with 1,000 rounds of 7.62x39 ammo, and a stack of magazines for my Saiga AK clone? Not to mention what I already have? Damn, if you only knew the bullshit I had to go through just to get 10 round mags for it during the Dark Days of Hillary's husband's ban...
Now, tomorrow my Delta Elite 10mm mags arrive. Oh yeah.
Hey, shut up. You bitches buy shoes. On purpose. And some of you dorky guys buy 'fishing gear'. Never heard of a 'shopping cart'? A 'supermarket'? Hullo? Skippers? Long John Silver's? Geez...
Anyway, I think I have punched out every hole on my 'Man Card' about now, so I shall redeem it for steak, and a blowjob. Or a real cool blender. It can crush ice!
Seriously, though, next to your newborn infant's first cry, is there any sweeter sound than a cold round snapping into a magazine? Over and over? Even better than the sound of a beer opening. Or a cork popping.
And then slapping the base of that mag into your opposite palm, and hearing 30 of your closest friends line up perfectly in double-stacked rows. Or heck, even single stack. I'm not finicky.
On my hunting weapon: should I be forced by circumstances to forage for food and whatnot for my family, in a time of crisis, I will carry my Ruger Mk2 at the ready. I have, what, 10 clips for it? Loaded? And another bazillion rounds of loose .22?
I'll carry the .44 Super Blackhawk as backup, even though the wife loves it. There's plenty of boomsticks here at the house to keep her and any visitors entertained.
Well, I tire. To bed with me. I shall endeavor to not think of strategies for relieving my fellow citizens of their provisions. Okay, bullshit. I'm taking the AK, too. Dammit.