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Show Coffee Drinkers Preferred Page 96 of 307 I lifted it up, pointed it at the floor, checked the chamber to make sure it was empty. I grabbed the two full clips that were also carefully embedded in the cushion of the gun safe. He hoisted a trash bag full of beer bottles and said, "Show me what they teach you Sanpete boys." Toward the far side of his property there was another dirt rise in front of the rock quarry. He had dug out a shelf in this rise and he clearly used this space for target shooting; the area in front of it was littered with glass. Maybe he wasn't an alcoholic. Maybe he just liked bottles. He set the bottles up one after the next and moved us out about fifty feet. I've been shooting all manner of guns ever since I was about eight. They never gave me a choice. It's what we did. We shot. We hunted. We're Allreds. I loaded the gun, and carefully sighted with both hands on the gun. Bent my knees. Watched my breathing and blam. Shatter. Nice. You can awaken the inner liberal but you can't make him hate guns. I was not fast but I was accurate. He had a few more bottles than I had bullets in those clips. For the last three bottles, he pulled his own gun out from a concealed holster I just learned he wore at the back of his trousers. Bang. Bang. Bang. He was fast and accurate. "Okay." He grunted. |