“Through every
Middlesex village and farm”
by David Benjamin
“A
well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free
State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be
infringed.”
— The Bill of Rights
Grosscup answered the
door. He was in his pajamas. His coffee was brewing. He had morning
breath. He found on his doorstep a tall, fit, granite-jawed figure,
heavily armed, wearing Tactical Assault Camouflage and a pair of
vicious-looking boots.
“Oh my God,” said Grosscup.
“ G. Grayling Grosscup?” asked the stranger in a clipped, resounding drill-sergeant baritone.
“Well, yes, but who — ”
“Captain
Grosscup, it’s an honor to make your acquaintance.” The stranger
saluted, almost violently. “I am Platoon Command Lieutenant (PCL)
Gerhard Flick of the First National Volunteer Militia Brigade.”
Grosscup rubbed his eyes. PCL Flick stood at ease. “How soon,” he said, “can you be ready, Captain Grosscup?”
“Captain?” said Grosscup, feeling the first twinges of alarm. “Ready for what?”
“Well,
sir,” said PCL Flick with a brief, flinty smile, “we know you pretty
well. You’re the proud owner of 19 guns, both rifles and handguns,
revolvers, semi-automatic and automatic, a classic Thompson submachine
gun, thousands of rounds of ammo (including a secret drawer full of
dubiously legal hollow-points), a rocket propelled grenade launcher
(with ammo), and even a flintlock that you found at an antique-gun show
in Albert Lea, Minnesota. And you’re an outspoken member of the National
Rifle Association, and a delegate to the annual convention of Gun
Owners of America. That’s you, isn’t it, Capt. Grosscup?”
“I guess.”
“Well, then, you’re our boy.”
“What boy? And why do you keep calling me ‘captain,’ fella?”
“Well,
with the kind of arsenal you’ve accumulated, sir, you’re automatically
elevated to officer status,” said Flick, with a note of admiration.
“Frankly, I’m a little bit in awe. I’d love a chance to handle your
sawed-off Beretta A400.”
“How do you know about that — ”
Well,
sir, I’d love to chat. But we are on a tight schedule,” said Flick,
patiently. “You’re due to report in less than two hours.”
Grosscup was beginning to feel a vague sense of alarm. “Report?” he cried. “Report what? Where?”
“Headquarters,
sir. Of the NVMB, right here in town. It’s a great little unit,” said
Flick. “As you can see from my comrades-in-arms.”
Suddenly, eight
similarly attired men of varying ages, heavily armed but not as svelte
as PCL Flick, emerged from behind Grosscup’s shrubs and assumed the
parade-rest position.
“Oh my God,” said Grosscup redundantly. “What’s all this about?”
PCL Flick smiled indulgently, looked at his watch and sighed. “It’s about the Second Amendment, sir. I’m sure you know it.”
“Of
course I do!” said Grosscup, stiffening his back and glaring up at
Flick. “It’s the most important document in U.S. history. It’s the
reason we’re free. It’s my personal, God-given shield against home
invasion, terrorist attacks and urban thugs. It’s — ”
“Yes, we know, Captain. That’s why we’re here.”
“Wait!”
said Grosscup. “Are you the jackbooted thugs sent by the government to
seize my weapons and render me helpless against liberal tyranny?”
PCL Flick shared a chuckle with his platoon, “Au contraire, Capt. Grosscup. We are your troops. We are the embodiment, the apotheosis of the Second Amendment!”
Grosscup
fell speechless and simply stared. Flick asked a question: “Captain,
what’s the fourth word in the sacred Amendment, the one that comes
before the mention of ‘arms’?”
Grosscup thought for a moment. “Oh. Um, ‘militia’.”
“Well, there you go,” said Flick.
“Go where?”
“Exactly,”
said Flick. “How about you get dressed and gather up seven or eight of
your favorite guns. We need to fit you for your uniform before you man
your post.”
“Post? What post?”
“The post you’ve earned,
sir. Indeed, the post that cries out to you because of your loyalty to
the Constitution and the NRA. We are, Capt. Grosscup, the well-regulated
militia enshrined in the Bill of Rights, the militia to which every
devout follower of the Second Amendment, as a matter of duty, as a
matter of patriotism, as a source of towering martial pride. Sir, you —
with your personal armory of well-oiled guns, rifles, ammunition and
explosives — you are our hero. We are your militia. We call upon you to
step forth and regulate us.”
Another crisp salute followed.
“Or else,” said PCL Flick. “We’ll have to grab you up and drag you away.”
“You mean, I have to go? Now?”
“Well,
sir, you did ask for this,” said Flick. “All that ranting and raving
you did, at the bar in the VFW Hall. Those petitions you signed. That
nasty thing you said about Gabby Giffords.”
In the face of
overwhelming force — a concept he had always cherished — Grosscup
relented. Soon, he was in a troop van, with his Beretta A400 in his lap
and an ammo belt over his shoulder. He turned to Flick.
“You said something about a duty post?”
“Yes sir, Captain sir,” said Flick. “You’ll be going to Desolation City.”
“Sounds homey. What will I be doing there?”
“You’re assigned to the Desolation National Swamp, sir, to protect the beavers.”
Grosscup looked puzzled, and slightly crestfallen. Flick explained.
“Against Mormon beaver poachers,” he added.
“Really? I had no idea Mormons did that.”
“Oh,
Captain, my Captain, eternal vigilance is the price of liberty. Mormon
beaver poaching in our national swamps is one of those threats that we
must rise against and stifle — mercilessly — even before it actually
exists! Like Shariah law in Oklahoma. Voter fraud in North Carolina!
Zombie apocalypse in the Beverly Hills Mall!”
The van lurched to a
halt. Troops piled out, followed by Grosscup, who discovered that
they’d been stopped for inspection by an NVMB militiaman waving an AR-15
and firing into the air. Grosscup recognized him.
“Oh my God, you let him
into the militia?” he cried. “That’s Mad Dog Melvin, the kid from down
my block who tortures animals and cooks meth in his basement. He’s nuts.
He’s dangerous.”
“That’s right,” said PCL Flick, saluting Mad Dog Melvin. “He’s our boy.”
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
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1 comment:
Continued laughing at them is the only way to slow these dildo suckers down. BTW, and one day I will have the nerve to do it, I will go to an open carry event at the local Starbucks packing a hard candy dildo penis. I will pull it from my Kiddie Holster, (Hoppalong Cassidy), and slowly begin to lick it with obvious pleasure. When enough true patriots get the message, I intend to just as slowly open a foil wrapped condom and cover the remaining dildo and put it back in my Kiddie Holster. I will give the patriots a Clint Eastwood stare and advise them that "Candy Canes Matter, be prepared".
I hope to remove myself from the meeting without harm.
I am waiting for an equally perverted female citizen to do the same thing with a gun shaped dildo of which there are many models.
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