I don't know how you celebrated Juneteenth or even Kwanza, but here at the Compound it just seemed right to clean a couple of shotguns which had cleverly swum back from their watery grave in the mighty Brazos.
And what filthy beasts they were! You see, it's all very well to have guns but if you don't clean them they don't work, they jam, seize up and fail. Just the other day I watched a friend unleash his Remington 870 on a clay. Boom, smoked it, and then what?
Nothing, the gun failed to extract, and all because the chamber hadn't been cleaned in a years worth of Sundays. Net result? Shell stuck in chamber, gun useless except as Zulu style club. And we all know spear chuckers can be deadly but properly functioning firearms deadlier still, so set about those guns with Juneteenth fervor. Let's see 'em shine, inside and out.
And shine they did. Excited, I texted a friend in England who had been in the Army (TA) and he asked if it brought back memories. It did, of course. Weapons cleaning, running, endless shaving and ironing, a Sergeant directing our parade attention to a "Colour" ambling largely along the edge of the Square, "Look at that, boys. Too fat to F***ing fight. Get OFF MY SQUARE. YOU'RE F***ING TILTING IT."
"That story," remarked my pal, "has stuck with me, indelibly." And same here, but of course I was there, back in the mists of time. Text convo over, Eduardo tipped up on the porch, he runs a chicken operation behind the Compound and has bad English, "Mi Padre, favor?" he asked, eyeing gleaming shotguns. "Car no good, drive to liquor store?"
Off we went, and he bought a case of beer for Fathers Day. Well done that man. And with that, all three of you gentle readers, all was well with the world on this great, awesome, holy and wonderful holiday that is... Juneteenth. Gun rights.
Your Pal,
LSP
