Party Line Battleline (part 2)

              

(Please see previous post for part 1)

  

                David has a gun but no bullets.  It’s been several weeks since he acquired the firearm and he’s spent several rounds on various Reds in that time.  He should feel guilty, but he doesn’t.  They started it.  They’re the gun nuts.  What was he supposed to do? Suffer their attacks and not fight back?

                And it felt good to take a few of their guys down.  Still, he doesn’t allow himself to think about that aspect of his recent business, or then the guilt would surely come.

                The violence has continuously escalated, both parties bringing every weapon they have to bear against their opposition.  They champion their candidates with an ideological fury that borders on madness.  As David skulks through ordinance-scarred streets he feels an urge to enter a house and open fire on the occupants simply because the car parked in their driveway has a bumper sticker announcing the owner’s support of that crooked bastard Jack Fielding.

                Jack says Blue Boys bleeding hearts will bleed this country dry!

                This infuriates David.  If only he had bullets.  And it’s so untrue.  If anyone was bleeding this country dry it was those damned Reds with their “support the rich” mentality.  Their obsessive need to put their right to own assault rifles above another’s right to food or medical care.

                He needs bullets.  He needs bombs.  He needs a frickin’ flame thrower.

                David hesitates outside a gun shop.  Bullets in there.  But someone inside will surely peg him as a liberal the moment he crosses the threshold.  He can’t just walk in there cavalierly and not expect hostility.  Then he realizes that that’s exactly how he needs to enter their domain.  With some swagger.  Some arrogance.  Some god-damn-it-all-it’s-my-right-to-be-here.

                And he does.

                Strolls right through the door.  Gun in hand because that seemed the boldest move.

                “Help you?” the man behind the counter asks.

                Quelling panic, hoping those few semesters of theater class all those years ago will benefit here, he says, “Got jumped.  Blue Boys took all my gear.  But they didn’t get this!”

                He holds up the pistol.  Grins.  And says, “From my cold dead hands.”

                The man behind the counter smiles wide and a couple of the browsing customers cheer him.

                “Holster and some ammo,” David says, suspecting the man behind the counter will know exactly what kind of bullets the gun needs from the glimpse he got of the pistol.  David fears the man might simply point in the direction of the holsters or the bullets so he adds, “I’ll be over here… rearming.”

                And David walks toward the largest, most irritatingly male, guns in the shop.

                He tries to keep an eye on the shop owner, straining the capabilities of his peripherals, but soon finds the lure of the assault weapons far too enticing.

                All these strange features.  Flash and sound suppressors, folding combat stocks, infrared illuminators, night vision scopes, rail interface systems.  A grenade launcher mount.  He’ll have to restructure his budget for the next few months.  Give up some front row tickets, do his best to avoid downtown eateries, stay clear of bookstores and electronics websites.

                He limits himself to two, admittedly bad-assed looking rifles.  Then three when the shop owner helpfully points out that David hadn’t selected anything fully automatic.  Of course he’d have to get something full auto.  To maintain his cover.

                The damage to his credit card is severe, including ammunition and other necessaries.  Of which he is forced to take the owner’s word on.

                “Wait,” David says.  “Isn’t there a bunch of paperwork?  A waiting period?”

                The owner and several patrons laugh.

                “If you want,” the owner says.

                “Better have him do it,” a loitering customer says.  “This time of year the bleeding hearts will be demanding random checks.”

                “They do that?” David asks, never having demanded an audit of gun store paperwork.  He can’t recall spending much time thinking about gun shops, much less demanding scrutiny of their records.

                The form is sparse.  Address information and some weird questions about gun models and bullet calibers.  A quiz.  Favorite hunting spot?  He hands the form back, incomplete.

                “Got all the important stuff,” David says.

                “What about this box?” says the owner, tapping the form.  “Party affiliation.”

                David had noticed that part but couldn’t bring himself to circle the “R,” knowing full well that the “D” would bring violence.

                “Thought that was a joke,” David says.  “I mean, what do they think?  Right?”

                The owner laughs and marks something on the paper.

                A few moments later, pistol holstered in a shoulder mount, armed with plenty of ammo, David leaves the store.  A pleasant, dirty feeling scampering beneath his skin.

                Roger sits in the hospital waiting room.  Blood seeps through improvised bandages on his left arm and right leg.  He wouldn’t have bothered with this place if not for Ed.  Ed took one in the gut.  Had to get him in.  Not sure if Ed has medical insurance.  He lost his job last year but is still supporting a repeal of that blasted Obamacare.

                Roger looks around.  These people.  Half of them are probably Medicaid leeches.  Feeding off the system.  He’d shoot a couple of them but they’d just end up in one of the rooms upstairs, his taxes paying for their treatment.

                He closes his eyes.  Elections are right around the corner.  Gotta keep up the fight.  Take these Blue Boys down.  That’s all that matters.  Getting back the Presidency so those Democrats can’t force through any more of their fruity little laws.  Always taking money and guns from hard working Americans.  Giving jobs to Mexicans and other illegals.  Doing everything they can to ruin the U.S. of A.

                Roger crosses his legs and stifles a scream as he accidentally aggravates his wound.

                Blue Boy bastards!  Sneaky, conniving, unpatriotic commies is what they are.  Ambushing like that!  No honor in at all.  Roger and his boys had been eating lunch in the park after a busy morning spreading pamphlets in neighborhoods with blue-hued demographics.  Assumably, the pamphlets contained demeaning, but factual, information about the Democratic candidates.  Info that those Blue Boys conveniently ignore.  Some of them must have gotten pissed and then Pearl Harbored Roger and his men. 

                A real travesty.

                And what is taking so long?

                All this Obamacare bureaucracy.  Never had to wait like this before.  A bleeding man could walk right into an exam room back in the good ole days.  No waiting.  Plenty of nurses and doctors ready to attend and treat.  So many cutbacks now.  Obama!

                Roger stands up and walks out of the waiting room.  He’ll treat his own wounds.  Fix himself up at home.  No one tries to stop him.  That wouldn’t have happened before Obama and his socialized medicine.  Someone, an orderly or med student, would have detained him, offered immediate assistance.  Look where this country was now?  What was this?  Canada?

                They had to take the elections.  Had to put more Republicans in office.  Hold those seats at all costs.