Hellchick

Despite the fact that my picture graces the bulletin boards of every post office across the United States, my friend Matt saw fit to take me to a shooting range in which high-powered explosive weapons would be placed into my hands and I would be allowed -- nay, encouraged -- to fire them with willful abandon.

This isn't entirely new to me. Back in high school I was in Marine Corps. Junior ROTC where I was not only a good shot on the air rifle team (I had a sharpshooter medal), but I was able to spend a week in full immersion at Parris Island, Marine Corps. boot camp. Part of the boot camp experience was the M-16 rifle course, and I'm proud to say that I didn't do too badly, but that experience is a distant memory...

While visiting my family in Washington state, Matt took me to a shooting range in Ravensdale and let me fire a rifle and a couple of pistols that his dad, a gunsmith, actually made himself. We started with the rifle, which Matt assured me had no kick to it. Let me warn you about something: if a guy in a flannel shirt hands you a rifle and says that it "kicks like a squirrel through a pillow," do not believe him.

But regardless of the bruise the gun left on my clavicle and the deafness despite the ear protection, I didn't too badly (after we spent some time adjusting the sights). Then we switched to the two .45 pistols. I don't know why, but this is where I really started feeling like a bad ass. My shot groups at first were abysmal -- the pistols had a bit of a kick, and they were heavier than I thought they'd be. Matt would shoot a group and then I'd shoot a group, and then we'd compare our side-by-side targets. I'm a highly competitive person, and it irritated me that my groups weren't as good as his. So I'd tell him, "again!" And we'd each fire another round. And then another. And another, until finally we put the guns down and checked the targets and I heard Matt say, "damn...your groups are better than mine."

"Now we can leave," I said.