The Right to Bear Arms

“How do you like my new forty?” Kevin asked as he pulled out a black Smith and Wesson handgun from his jacket pocket.

“Whoa man, you can’t just spring something like that on someone. I need to be mentally prepared for you to hand me a weapon like that. At first I thought you were about to pull out a big bottle of Budweiser.”

“Sorry. But it is pretty cool don’t you think? The sight is specially designed to be highly visible in the dark.”

“Are you planning to shoot someone at night? Or in a cave maybe? You don't have a weekend trip to Afghanistan in the works do you? Wait. On second thought, don’t tell me. That would make me an accessory.”

“Relax,” my brother said reassuringly. “I have no concrete plans to shoot anyone at the moment. Spontaneously, however, is another story.”

“Great. I feel much better now.”

Truth is, Kevin has never owned his very own pistol before. A hardcore gym rat, he’s always seemed content relying on raw physical strength for protection against would-be threats on his safety. And he’s not shy about his showing off his “weapons of mass destruction” either. Anybody who knows him has heard at least one of the following. He shared the following examples with me voluntarily.

• Ever been mountain climbing? (flex) Want to?
• Almost got arrested last night...concealed weapons. (flex)
• Couldn’t believe I had the FBI investigating me...for having weapons of mass destruction. (flex)
• My nickname is Chevy...Like a ROCK! (flex)
• Ever been to the Laser Show at Stone Mountain? (flex) Show starts at nine!
  

Believe it or not, this is only a small sample of my brother’s undeniable Southern charm. He is extremely proud of his bulging biceps. And to be fair, he has put in a great deal of time, effort, and banned substance abuse to get there. But I guess in the end he didn’t think his own “bear arms” were adequate protection. So he broke down and got himself a .40 caliber handgun. Chicken.

Our father was raised in West Virginia and served in the U.S. Marine Corps during the Vietnam War, so we are no strangers to guns. Dad had a theory about potential intruders entering our house at night. “Shoot first, ask questions later,” he told us frequently hoping to provide a verbal road map for handling danger. Strange methodology if you ask me. Sure, firing your weapon first would greatly reduce your risk of getting injured. What I don’t understand is the “ask questions later” portion of his hypothesis. I say, why bother? Unless you’re going to ask your assailant something like, “Are you dead yet or do I need to shoot you again?” Or perhaps “Can you possibly scoot over just a little? The tile is only a few feet away and you’re making a mess of the carpet.” Otherwise, your line of questioning may prove to be somewhat ineffective. Unfortunately, people bleeding to death in your living room aren’t always the most responsive.

Reversing the order of the famous phrase, “Ask questions first, shoot later” is no help either. That could get you hurt in a hurry. Besides, it’s not really an appropriate time for small talk. The best modification I could come up with is “Shoot first, call the cops later.” Dad won't like it but it'll have to do.

But knowledge of my father’s time in the service was enough to minimize my interest. Sure I’ve been out hunting a few times (mostly for squirrel) but I’ve never been much of a gun enthusiast. Neither has Kevin. That is until now. Apparently, the current state of our great nation has him concerned about what may come in the days ahead.

“Why on Earth do you need a pistol anyway? You do realize that zombies are immune to bullets don’t you?”

“Yeah, of course I do. Everybody knows that. But don’t worry, that’s not why I bought it. I’m mostly going to use it down at the indoor shooting range.”

“Mostly?” I inquired. “What other uses do you have in mind?”

“Well, there is this annoying rooster next door...”

“You wouldn’t,” I said cutting him off from finishing his last statement.

“No. Not really. But you gotta admit, fried chicken for lunch sure does sound tasty after a good night’s sleep.”

“True. Fried chicken is a delicacy. But it’s no reason to go knocking off your neighbor’s living alarm clock,” I replied trying to dissuade my brother from embarking on a life of crime.

“Alright already. I will ONLY use it down at the range. Happy now?”

“A little,” I said comforted with the knowledge we narrowly avoided a holiday season of eating turkey down at the local jailhouse. Whew.

The fact of the matter is that our nation’s forefathers took great measures to ensure Kevin’s right to own a gun. That same right is guaranteed to all Americans in the second amendment to the U.S. Constitution. These wise men realized that any truly free nation must be able to defend that freedom when necessary. All that my brother is doing is exercising that right. Just like my father before him. And after careful consideration, I may actually join him. Besides, fried chicken really does sound appetizing.