I once wrote a whimsical short story about a bunch of friends who go out to shoot trap one day, just for a lark. Most of 'em are noobs. The protagonist's father is from Old Money and lives in a railroad-era mansion that has an actual gunroom, which is filled with a mostly-inherited collection of best quality British side-by-sides, with the odd FN Browning Superposed and Krieghoff Model 32 thrown-in. I send the characters out with a motor-cased, two-barrelled 1990s Purdey 12, a matched pair of pre-war Holland 12s, a gorgeous little between-the-wars Woodward 28-gauge for the slightestly-built member of the gang, a Charles Hellis 12, and an Elvis Presley-grade FN Superposed Lightning 12 with barrels for Trap and Skeet. The young woman who's borrowed the Browning is an experienced and skilled subsistence bird-hunter from a Cree community in northeastern Saskatchewan, now living in the city, and she's never held an engraved shotgun before that day. Nor has she seen a clay pigeon. At one point, she shyly asks the protagonist how much the Browning's worth, which leads to knee-jerk assessment of the auction values of the rest of the crusty old bazookas they've been entrusted with for the day, and she realizes that they're barreling down the road with a quarter-million dollars worth of light flak guns in the trunk. To shoot at things they can't even eat. Philosophical discussion ensues.
Harlan Ellison once wrote, "Writers take trips in other people's lives." Well, I take trips in other people's gunrooms.
Last edited by Fudd; 02/03/24 04:00 PM.
