I love guns, and it's my Mother's fault.
A Brit and a German wander into an American gun range.
Shots rang out around us. Echoes of gunpowder shaking in my periphery. Each bone in my hand lightly polished as the shockwaves vibrated down from metal to flesh.
The moments between firing felt eternal. Every round dragging me into a liminal zone of absolute silence, despite the space around being saturated with deafening explosions.
My eyes were locked in on the target, fluorescent light glinting off the barrel and flaring in my glasses. There’s no way these plastic shields could protect me from a piece of carnage-infused shrapnel flying towards my face (if that was to be my fate).
Unsure whether my life would continue after this moment, or whether the sun would set without me, my finger curled around the cold steel once again.
Guns. Guns. Guns.
I love shooting guns.
In fact, I love everything about them.
The simplicity, the craftsmanship, the variety, the discipline required to wield one, and the raw power you feel when the hammer comes down. The features ranging from extremely basic shotguns to stocked, silenced, and scoped sniper rifles.
Absolutely everything.
And as an Englishman, this is quite a controversial statement to bring out on a Wednesday night at the pub. Especially if you like having friends.
People give you strange looks like you’re an alien visiting from another planet (America), “Well, who do you want to shoot!?” is typically the first question, followed by, “I could never own a gun they’re dangerous!!”
I guess I do look like a psychopath to the callous minds of the British public. I get it though, most would rather remain in their cages with food and water provided by the state than surrender to the reality of personal responsibility.
I try not to slag off my home nation too much in my stories but, I’m always irked by the British desire to reject the responsibility of true freedom in the face of what they generally believe to be a slightly cosier crab bucket. Even if the state is elbow deep in every crevice of their lives and bank account.
And yes, the right to defend yourself and your property is the freedom in discussion here (we don’t really have this in the UK). Gun ownership is just the highest manifestation of values I hold and a tool which carries one of the heaviest forms of personal responsibility imaginable.
Welcome to America (2023).
Eric had just decided dragging my post-airplane, jet-lagged ass, around Mall of America was a truly patriotic contribution to the start of my journey on a brand new continent. Beating the British into submission was part of American history after all.
Tethering my body to the carriage of an indoor Nickelodeon-themed rollercoaster, my soul drifted upward like a helium balloon headed towards the ceiling. Dizzying was an understatement. Somewhere there is a photo of my panda-eyed face clearly detached from this physical plane but, I won’t be desecrating my publication with that anytime soon.
Crashing horizontally onto the sofa in his home, my eyes spiralled into the back of my head. Flickering in and out of consciousness. A few small beeps and a distant whir rang out from the garage as my eyelids glued shut.
The sound of metal on metal woke me sharply, “Welcome to America.” Eric said politely handing me a recently dismantled pistol. His grin was wide and mischievous knowing he was about to watch my brain pour out of my ears onto the carpet below (metaphorically of course).
But, although I was delirious, the pistol balanced perfectly in my hand. My nervous system was calmer than it had been all day.
I felt like I had done this before. But, not here, and not in this lifetime.
Class is in session (back to 2024).
Rolling into the range, I wondered who Bill was.
The man’s name was plastered on every surface and the namesake of the business. Yet, his image was nowhere to be found. “Maybe we’re all Bill... Kill Bill, no.. Anyway.” I wondered as the cashier took a moment to triple check my passport and decline my British debit card for the second time.
Despite my poor attempt at armchair philosophy, we were pointed to an air locked door and into our lanes.
Each grey section carving off a tiny piece of the universe just for us.
I was returning to my natural environment, and by the looks of David’s face, he was about to be catapulted into a new dimension. We were both a very long way from home preparing to convert to the steel barrelled religion of justice. Brits and Germans share a lot of culture, mostly systems-based autism, a love for heavy metal, good bread, and a desire to buy/steal sunny Mediterranean islands so we have a retreat from our equally brutal winters (Malta and Mallorca respectively).
We also don’t have guns.
We were partaking in an act so naughty, so taboo, so heinous, that we would never be able to explain ourselves to our hometown friends ever again. I cannot stress enough how much firing a gun opened my eyes to an entirely new way of thinking. I like to think I knew what power was before firing a gun. I thought I understood violence because I did some martial arts. I did not. You have no concept of the fragility of life until you’re staring down a set of iron sights knowing what this, frankly simple, tool can achieve.
Two burly men unloaded a semi-automatic shotgun beside us. Dark blue steel peered out from their lane in the silhouette of a COD: Modern Warfare 2 loadout I used when I was 15. Their backs curling towards the ceiling from the recoil as each shell disintegrated their paper target even further. Their giggling schoolgirl energy, surrounded by (potentially) deadly weapons, added light to an otherwise hyper-serious location.
I loaded my first magazine into my borrowed pistol. The grip pinning my already clammy hands in place.
Shooting left-handed is very unfortunate for anything but shotguns as you have to knuckle bump the safety on every new magazine. Sometimes I wish my parents had forced me to be right-handed. It would have certainly made buying cool guitars much easier. But, my Grandma didn’t get caned in school for me to throw out my cack-handed heritage now, even if it meant a slightly awkward reload.
Or nearly getting my face blown off by a jammed rifle round (a story for another day).
In this case, switching to my second weapon would have been much faster.
Each round felt like a fireball emanating from my wrist, channelled down towards my fingertip. Pure mechanical wizardry. One of the few times where very little effort multiplies into an extreme output. A totally asymmetrical action.
It wasn’t long before I switched over to the trusty shotgun though. Louder with the kind of weight that feels good in the hand. Pressure from gravity you can’t help but hold onto. My box of shells spilled out onto the table. Two shots, then reload. Then two more.
Something in my veins yearns for the shotgun.
The polished silver barrels, the glossy wooden stock, they’re a work of art. Reinforced by years of sawed off shotgun-only run’n’gun classes in Call of Duty: World at War - it was the obvious choice for a man like me.
Knowing that in the wrong hands, this could be my final moment filled me with a sense of peace I’ve never experienced anywhere else. Adrenaline flooded my body to a steady state of euphoria. This was my environment, my home, my true nature. Shreds of paper flying into the air, cracking empty shells onto the floor, and reloading in a couple of clicks.
Centuries of genetic memories rapidly returned to my vessel, collecting neatly under my index finger ready to fire again. And again. And again.
No fear, no nervousness, I was made to be here.
It might be far-fetched to some to consider shooting guns a spiritual practice but, that’s what it is. To be sat on the same porch as Death drinking beer, chuckling till sundown, knowing I wield power beyond my monkey-brain’s comprehension while he waits for me to slip up is profoundly grounding.
His first day at the range.
Stepping back from my lane, Max and David were taking their turns.
Max’s traditional Ruger Vaqueros cutting through the noise of the surrounding sound palette. More of a pop than a blast as he moved with the same dancing elegance as Kurt Russell in Tombstone. He was a midwestern cowboy type - Max I mean. Tall, rugged, with a thick beard and a slow deep voice that rumbled the floor you were standing on. Always wearing cowboy boots until the heels collapsed and riding a thunderous motorcycle. You could hear this golden hearted grizzly bear from miles away, long before you could see him.
David, on the other hand, was handling a shotgun for the first time. A baby German deer discovering his legs. Not the moment of birth where they’re wobbly and unsure though but, the moment they discover they can sprint. His face ricocheting with surprise as his first few rounds built into a quiet smiling confidence.
He must have said, “Dude” into the double digits by the time we were done. An increasing number of teeth were on show with every smile that accompanied the word.
I stood in fascination of his newly discovered amusement as by comparison I was almost too nonchalant about it all. Too embedded in the movements by an instinctual nature that I forgot the playfulness of it all. There was no excited surprise for me, just clarity of mind.
And for a couple of hours the world disappeared around us.
Tunnel vision was my default.
Rotating between photographer and gunman. Both shooting down range, two characters woven together by placing a single finger on the trigger.
I can’t lie, I stood obsessed with the mechanics of it all. One click and something crazy happens. Two chemical miracles discovered a couple of millennia apart, scratching the same primal itch.
Separated from the world in a vacuum of grey walls and concrete floors, we leant against the bench and settled into the tranquility of the gunpowder jungle.
I know the pros, I know the cons, I know the cultural differences and the absurdity of being born in a “gun-free” society with the irony of lusting after handfuls of polished metal. But, it feels right. It feels like home.
Born in the fire.
Returning to the UK later that month I couldn’t sit still.
Mildly unsettled by the calming sensation of cold steel in my hand, I sat with my Mum in our family home detailing out the story. Jet-lagged in reverse, I recounted the sensation of it all. Expecting to be met with horror.
I came to learn however, that she had been shooting rifles, whilst carrying me, until she was 8 months pregnant.
Heading to the local skittle (bowling) alley in the back of a Somerset country pub firing rounds into stacks of hay bales until she physically couldn’t lay down anymore. I know military wives are built different but, I never knew she was such a badass.
So, aside from my parents’ voices, gunshots were probably one of the most consistent sounds in my early development. No wonder they don’t spook me.
I was effectively born with a gun in my hand.
Until next time.
Connor x
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