Free Form Friday - Death is Easy; Duty is Hard

Sorry for the prolonged absence. Work's been busy. But banking that sweet sweet over time so as to bring y'all more quality gun content. And I've been devoting a lot of online time towards pushing various links to download 3d guns. Because don't tell me what to do. Death to tyrants. Justice for Lavoy.

All that aside; enjoy the following. Bud is a dozen State Troopers I've known. He's some how related to Jim and Jake, just not sure how yet.

The State Patrolman was clad in khaki. Not pressed per say but obviously well tended. He wore a Smith and Wesson Model 27 in a low slung basket weave holster. The holster hung low but not ostentatiously so. It was worn at the location a man who might have to draw in a hurry just as soon as he hopped out of a car might wear his gun.  Or by a man who might have to shuck his gun to jump in a rain swollen river after a small child might have to do. Bud Charles had done both. And lived to tell about it. Bud was man who wore a gun to work every day. Actually, we wore three. The Model 27, which he still referred to as the Highway Patrolman because, damn it, Smith and Wesson made good guns with good descriptive names.  Damn lawyers. On his left ankle was an airweight Model 642, not quite a Chief’s Special but just as reliable. And with the current collector frenzy of good working guns, Bud couldn’t quite bring himself to actually wear his Chief’s Special on his ankle anymore. But if anyone asked it was because the old Model 36 (those damn numbers again) was a heavy sumbitch with an exposed hammer. The 642 and 27 could share ammo if it came to it. Bud kept six  Federal 125 grn .357 JHP in his Model 27. 

Yes, the rest of the patrol was carrying a Glock in either .40 S&W (worthless) or in .357 Sig (damn near worthless), but, Bud in his career had been more frequently to put down hurt moose than shoot bad guys and that’s where the old magnum six shooter reigned supreme. He carried three HKS speed load which were loaded with 158 grn .38 Special +P LSWCHP, the old FBI load, which was probably the best damn people stopper this side of 230 grn .45 ACP or that new fangled 10mm Buffalo Bore stuff. Sidenote, Bud, when having consumed a beer or eight, would go on at length how the 10mm was the best pistol cartridge ever, how the S&W 1076 was the best duty pistol ever, with apologies to John Browning, and how those damn women FBI agents should have just been given old Model 15s if they couldn’t handle the 1076. He also would go on and say that he would probably be called Stumpy before too long because of how much fun the 10mm was to reload for. A face full of Glock parts would be totally worth it for 2,000 FPS out of an autoloading handgun in a real cartridge.  Oh, yeah, his third gun. His jesus gun. His “shit if I ever use this things are bad” and also “damn, it came down to me using a Glock” gun. He stuck a Glock 43 in his vest. If he was in a fight, shot both his wheel guns dry, what have you, he could get the itty bitty Glock out and have seven rounds of .380 ACP to make a last stand of it with.  Bud considered the .380 ACP about useless, but hell, putting a small fast bullet in somebodies belly might make them reconsider bashing his skull in or something.

So those were the three guns that Bud carried. He had carried an M-9 Beretta in the Army as an MP (hated it) and carried a M-1911A1(loved it) as a National Guard MP. Until he deployed to the Sandbox after 9/11. He then carried an M-11. Which, for a 9mm autoloader wasn’t terrible. He also used to great effect on a couple of supposedly friendly a Benelli auto loading 12 gauge. Which damn, did thing end a fight in a hurry. 

Which brings us to our present situation.

Bud’s khaki shirt was covered in mud and blood. His 642 was dry. His Model 27 had no shit been shot out his hand by the jihadi fuck with an AK clone inside the school. The fucking local cops, more used to giving tickets to passing motorists than real police work, had fled. Things were pretty damn bad for Bud. A beer seemed really damn good right now. But hell, it was only 11 o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday. His Dad, a legend on the Patrol had served with a man who had policed the state with old Captain Dillard, who might have been the meanest sumbitch to ever wear a star on his chest and the big hat. Somewhere deep down in Bud, something called duty rose up. He took off his tie and bandaged his hand. Thankfully, it was his right hand, which he could still use his trigger finger and not fuck up what he had to do next. After bandaging his hand, he fished out his jesus gun. Seven rounds of .380 were sent pretty damn quickly towards the main door way of the small school. Bud rolled out from his concealment behind the bushed. Beating feet to his cruiser he yanked the Mossberg M590 out from its dash rack. He dumped two boxes of double ought buck in his pockets, hoping it wouldn’t come to that because of all the kids. He quickly worked the pump to eject the eight rounds of buck out and threaded in 8 slugs. Big .67 caliber chunks of lead that fucking ended fights in a blast of brimstone that instantly sent a miscreant to the diety of his choice. More importantly, the Remington Sluggers defeated most body armor, which those damn jihadi bastards seemed to be wearing the way they had taken round after round from the school resource officer’s .40 S&W pistol. Damn, Dennis was dead. Shit, they were going fishing Saturday and Dennis owned the boat. Fucking goat fuckers.

Bud rose from the cover of his cruiser. A jihadi was moving forward with his AK-whatever the fuck torwards him. The big ghost ring sights made the shot easy. The boom from a real mankilling weapon was deafening. But Bud had put on his electronic ear muffs. One dead bad guy for sure. Bud was pretty sure that he had killed one with a .357 JHP to the head earlier. And Dennis was most concise when he said six terrorist had hit his school. Good man, Dennis.  That meant the odds were a bit better. Bud had gone up against three men once and lived to tell it. Hell, and the boys from A Barracks and there damn tactarded AR-15s couldn’t be too far away by this point. Bud stepped through the glass door frame. The glass having already been shot away by the Jihadis when they made their entrance. Screams down the main long hall guided him. He took a guess and assumed that the bad guys, after suffering two causalities, would retreat inwards.