guns: a revenge fantasy
i am here at your house, to take away your guns.
i am wearing a uniform that could be nebulously FBI-adjacent, maybe an off-shoot of the NSA, maybe i bought it at a halloween costume store, you don't know. you can't tell. my badge has an agency listed on it but it's blurred, slightly, so you can't read what the letters are. but there are five of me, all identical, all scowling in that way that says I've Seen It All, Kid, And Your Posturing Doesn't Mean Shit To Me. Your Tears Mean Dick To Me, Just So You Know.
it occurs to you that i might be a team of weirdly identical strippers, here to celebrate--whatever the most recent holiday of yours was. did your friends hire me, as a weird joke gift? are you on candid camera?
no. i am not here to party with you and drink the artisenal beer that you keep at your house to make up for the fact that you have no personality except what you are mimicking from the people around you. i am here to take away your guns.
"but they're my guns," you say, confused, as i and the five other me's enter your house without a warrant. "i have a right to them. the constitution says so."
"that's interesting," i tell you. "once upon a time, we could have had a really nuanced, rational conversation about that, and maybe come up with some kind of legislative solution that at once acknowledges the deeply-rooted american fear of its own government and our extremely strong sense of self-reliance and wild-west-machismo while parsing out the difference between what the writers of the constitution understood as 'bearing arms' and how your right to a gun doesn't supersede the public's right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. but that time is done now. that time is in the past. now i'm here to take away your guns."
i and my five clones begin to take your guns from their various resting places, slowly, leisurely, not breaking eye contact with you the whole time. this should be impossible, given that we are moving about your house, but throughout the entire process you can feel our eyes somehow, through the walls.
there is a half-made sandwich on your kitchen island, which you were clearly preparing for yourself when we interrupted you with a ring at your door. i pick up the sandwich and start to eat it.
"that's mine," you say. you want to grab a gun and menace me with it, but you can't, because i and my five clones have taken them all.
"it sure was," i say. "but now here i am, taking all your guns. so i think it's probably mine now, don't you?"
"guns don't kill people," you say. "people kill people."
"people are gonna have to get a whole lot more creative i guess," i answer, my mouth full of sandwich. it's not even a good sandwich. you can't even make a sandwich right. you expect me to have sympathy for you wanting to keep your hunting rifle when you clearly can't be trusted to make a decent meal out of whatever you manage to sneak up on and catch? you don't deserve to hunt a deer because you don't deserve to eat venison. enjoy your soggy tomato and lettuce and mayonnaise sandwiches for the rest of your stupid life.
there is only one gun left. it is a family heirloom. your grandfather used that gun during the civil war to defend his family from nearby militias. "please," you say. "it barely even shoots anymore. it's my heritage. it's my history."
i pry the gun from your hands. you try to shoot me with it but you can't, because your body feels paralyzed. i stare you straight in the eyes as i pull your Super Special Family Heirloom Hunting God-Given Right Snowflake Bullet Machine Signed By The Real Wyatt Earp out of your hands and make you watch as i take it apart, piece by piece, all out of order, breaking the delicate parts and discarding them carelessly around your house. i make you watch me eat the bullets, that's right, EAT THE BULLETS, PHYSICALLY, WITH MY MOUTH, me and my five clones, all of us surrounding you chomping on the ammunition that your great-great-whoever-the-fuck relative hand-carved from metal they mined out of a quarry they had to steal from whoever was there first.
"it didn't have to be this way," i tell you, bits falling out of my mouth while i talk, somehow growing immeasurably taller, all six of us, while you are paralyzed and frozen and have no guns left because we have taken them, all across the country my clones are going into every house and taking them from everybody, the NRA tried to stop us but somehow everyone with a membership evaporated overnight, turning into finely ground dust like the gunpowder now being ground into my molars: "it didn't have to be this way, but now it is, because you couldn't be rational, you couldn't have one single shred of human empathy, you couldn't see past your own extremely oily nose, and because you couldn't, you don't get to have a voice in this policy anymore. you just have to stand there and watch as i take away this thing that you love so much, that gives you so much comfort, that lets you pretend to believe that in a high-stress situation you'd be john wick and not just some asshole who shoots a child because that child scared you. i was willing to respect it and work with you for a solution, but you wouldn't do that, so now you don't get anything that you want.
you don't get anything that you want.
you don't get anything that you want.
you don't get anything that you want."