Book 1: The Siege of Fort Vagabond
Chapter 1 Part 3: Just Some Light Hazing
Bohdan’s eyes fell on the dark haired game warden in training who’d materialized out of the shadows before they were chased by demons when they were kids. Johan was probably the next to permanently leave the dank smelling halls of the bachelor. To no one's great surprise Johan was dating Gregory’s sister Linda though he was taking way too long to seal that deal as far as Bohdan was concerned. They’d been dating off and on right after the night they’d cleansed the Apache freaks from the hallowed halls of their lair. Time to get a move on if his old fearless leader had beaten him to the punch.
Nonetheless there was their warden captain in training sitting at the ornate table with no engagement ring on his finger. He was laughing, but maintaining perfect precision as Johan cleaned the disassembled Kel Tec RFB Hunter with its extended barrel that was paradoxically 24” while being shorter than an AR10's 18” barrel.
Were there newer, fancier .308 bullpups that could eat 7.62 rounds for breakfast on the market come their current year of 2029? Of course, but Johan had fallen in love with the first beast his uncle had bought him on his sixteenth birthday despite Kel Tec’s less than sterling reputation. A fact that Bohdan could see the fourth and newest club member was very keen on reminding his gun-nut senior what a gun connoisseur, like their new guy, thought about cheap plastic mold reliant hot garbage that couldn’t even be considered scrap metal.
The Club President nodded at Charlie as the red headed meat brain went off on a soliloquy on what he thought about the modern bikini babe after the body positive movement, but Bohdan found himself more interested in the mini drama behind his Vice President’s back. The wars between their local gun-nut and gun connoisseur could make Catholic versus Protestant flame wars look tame. Not to mention less bloody.
To the slim ex-tract star who became their new guy any bullpup was a special kind of sacrilege only shy of heresies that led the wayward into the arms of a plastic filled glock instead of a Colt 2011. Johnny the Newguy wasn’t so crazy to claim nothing was better than the classic, but outdated 1911. Even Bohdan who had no horse in this pony race would’ve drawn the line there. Not enough capacity, and this Club President wasn’t about to source .45 rounds for one shooter's taste.
Still, the connoisseur had convinced Bohdan enough to break the bank a bit for his early graduation party, and buy a duty sidearm that costs as much as a used car. There that goochie boy was hanging on his hip. A Stuccatto XC 2011; 9mm, compensated, and felt like cheating on the range, or when popping wannabe goons. These days Bohdan only brought out his old Glock 17 whenever he wanted to agitate their gentlemen of high taste. Saint John of firearms as they like to call him when he allowed his connoisseuring to overtake his common sense.
Today was Johan’s turn to rub his gun sins in front of the fanatical saint of firearms who also happened to be the other designated marksman of their tight crew. Nature dictated that a rivalry must be formed. In this case nature had outdone herself putting a gun purist against the gun-nut who’d started, trained, and mastered on the very sci-fi looking bullpup design.
Even as the thought crossed the President’s mind he watched as Johan violated every gunman’s holy golden rule, and stuck his hand into John’s storage. With a flourish the gun-nut pulled one of Saint John’s heavy 20” barrels for said Newguy’s Scar MK 20 and set it down next his 24” barrel for the RFB hunter. Bohdan just barely avoided snorting when the soon to be game warden pulled out a tape measure, and started tsking at the Saint of Firearms like an oh so disappointed Sunday school teacher who just so happened to be your jaded lover.
Saint John for his part was busy strangling his cue stick, and getting close to bursting a blood vessel in his forehead. Behind him on the other side of one of their posh solid oak pool tables the two gunners of their committee snickered, and moved the eight ball right in front of the cue ball with John none the wiser. Of course, all the commotion in the back row from the pair of oversized blond vikings caught the attention of Charlie mid rant. But as usual the brutes were looking oh so astute, and attentive to their old football captain before vaccine rules had ruined their middle school league. Newguy wasn’t so slick.
“See old Saint John over here wants to go to the old okie to snuff out a stinkin’ man eating octopus! I can see it all over your face Newguy,” John shook himself, and sent his big brown eyes around the room as clueless, and confused as a hound dog caught in catnip. Bohdan felt that wicked grin start to creep across his face. Poor Newguy. Any of the other club members would’ve just thrown how Charlie’s infamous dragging monologues could put a man hyped up on meth and twenty red bulls to sleep right into the VP’s face, but every new guy has a confidence issue till they’re not too new anymore.
So Newguy blinked his puppy eyes a few more times before putting his foot so far in his mouth his ancestors could smell his sweaty socks. “Yeah, of course Charlie. I agree.” Saint John was in his hole now, and Charlie was going to bury him.
The Story Will Continue Every Saturday.
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