I decided to wait, having learned early on in my shooting career that such a situation usually turned into a good chuckle. Dude reached into his gun bag and started pulling out his precious. It was like a scene where one of the stooges pulls a lamppost out of a handbag, the gag staged on a floor with a hole cut in it. The barrel just kept coming out of the bag, like a chromed elephant schlong. I wondered if there was a hole in the floor and a prop man underneath feeding this humongous lethal chromed thing through to Dude.
Dude hefted his precious up in the air, a grotesque statement to his power as a consumer, and clicked the magazine into place. I took a few steps backwards as Dude lined up on the target at 15 yards. His first shot was well off of the ten ring, the rest of his shots were also weak. The .50 caliber magnum was only a bit louder than my wife's Kahr .40 a major disappointment, the sort you feel when you plunk down a dollar to see the bearded lady at the carnival, and when you go in, it's a old chipped mannequin head wearing a scraggly Santa Beard.
After all of the buildup, I expected an orgasmic fury of fire, spitting lead, the target ruined by Dude's Israeli built manhood. Instead I felt like I was watching Bob Dole trying to hit on the Vegas showgirls only to find that he forgot his little blue pills.
"Well that was interesting". My wife said, as I imagined dude, who wouldn't even have to shoot an assailant, as just looking down the barrel of his 'Eagle would be enough, that is if he could get the full length of it out of his bag in time.
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