The acrid smell of spent ammunition is like a drug to me. Gunpowder and primer is like my version of heroin. Every detail is sharpened. I hear the metallic clink of brass hitting the floor. I can feel the thumping vibrations of displaced air. The smooth feeling of the shell casings in my hand, waiting to be loaded into the magazine.
All of these things are vivid in my memory, all of these details I can remember so well.
Snick, as the rounds are loaded into the magazine. SCHWANG! As the bolt drives a round home. A soft click as the safety catch is flipped off. Up to the shoulder goes the stock, tight in and comfortable. My finger, extended to the side, parallel to the trigger, is now brought down to caress it oh so gently.
Squeeze, don’t pull.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
It almost sounds like when the batter hits a solid home run straight out of the ball park. The recoil is joy to my arm, letting me know my little bundle of lead is safely on its way. I glory in the arc of the falling shells, the fresh smell of burning powder assailing my nostrils, the home run sounds.
After, there is a slight ringing in my ears, then absolute, perfect, silence.
"Peace? I love peace, I'd be out of a job if there was peace."
-Tony Stark
"Iron Man"
2 comments:
There's just something satisfying about being able to do a simple task with precision and skill, and then get immediate feedback on how well you were able to do it.
sometime...we should go hunting
-M
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