(Published in Facsimilation Magazine 2004)

Dangerous At Any Speed

by
Diana Grove

I grew up around guns; I like the way they look, the way they smell, even the way they taste (what can I say, 4-year-olds put everything in their mouth). In fact, I have a .28 gauge shotgun next to my bed right now. It's amazing how quickly a man will loose his pants when you point a loaded weapon at him.

But for as many guns as I've been around, I have yet to actually shoot one. I just know if I pulled the trigger it would somehow misfire and ricochet off of a government building, creating a gigantic Kennedy-style skull flap that would surely spill my brains all over my snazzy new convertible.

But here's something that may come as a surprise: unlike most people like me who wear Fuck God t-shirts on Sunday, I hate being shot at.

Just the other night, as I drove away from my new house on lower Magazine Street, in one of New Orleans splashier neighborhoods, a 12-year-old boy pulled out what appeared to be an Israeli sub machine gun and opened fire. I careened off the road as red blood spattered all over my windshield.

"Mother Fucker!" I screamed. "That little six-fingered gutter snipe hit me!" But oddly enough- I didn't feel a thing. I checked the car interior, no damage. I checked my torso, no gaping holes. I checked the thick, viscous fluid that clung to my hood, no platelets. I was at a total loss.

Turns out, it was a paint ball gun and not an Uzi. And even though I wasn't shot, my new car was, which to my mind is much worse considering cars don't have the good sense to fire back. So when I heard there was going to be a gun show at the Pontchartrain Center the next day, I became very excited. I was gonna pull out my check book and get some .38 caliber revenge. Plus, it was my birthday and it gave me an excuse to go out and buy myself something nice; like a Kevlar nightie or a surface to air missile.

For a girl like me, walking into a gun show is like turning a bear loose on a family of fat picnickers - I immediately began to salivate.

There was a sea of tables lined with Colt .45's, Lugar P8's, Walther PPK's, spring-loaded police batons, Tasers, Blaser Safari rifles, Tactical Long Range Precision rifles, Mace, and even "Attitude Adjuster" brass knuckles. It was a veritable fun fair of killing (and wounding) apparatus.

Cowboys, accountants, and kids wearing heavy, gold jewelry and gangsta clothes wandered around in a hushed silence, picking up weapons like they were precious gold bars.

I spotted a tiny used Beretta that was on sale for only $129 and fondled it lovingly, sniffing the barrel. The guy behind the table shoved a 3 inch-thick roll of bills into his pocket and asked me what I thought.

"What do I think? Are you kidding me? This gun is fucking adorable. I could hook this thing in my bra and it wouldn't even change my cup size! I want it - and you don't even have to put it in a bag - I'll wear it out."

He was only too happy to oblige. But evidently, because I was an out of state resident, he claimed I couldn't buy a gun at the gun show, at least not from him - it was Louisiana state law.

"Although," he said "There are plenty of other sellers that would gladly find loopholes if you have the right amount of cash."

Loopholes? I didn't have time to ask him what that meant because I was immediately distracted by a large display of really hardcore-looking bullet proof clothing just across the way.

I slipped on one of the featured bullet-proof vests and found it alarmingly heavy. Bruce, the seller, told me I should forget about the weight because it was probably the only thing that would protect me from living and breathing one minute, and being "dead as a doe in deer season the next." He also pointed out a neck protector, a helmet, and something called "groin panels," which could all be Velcroed together to make one big tear-away Michelin Man-esque suit.

"Okay Bruce, I just found out I can't legally buy a gun today, but what does a girl like me have to do to get into a pair of groin panels?"

"Well," he shrugged, "Give me about $199 and two weeks for delivery and we'll see what happens." It seemed like a pretty good deal to me, but I decided at the last minute the Kevlar would probably give me a rash, especially during Hurricane season, so I continued on to see what other kinds of terrifying stuff I could buy.

That's when I saw it - easily the most exciting thing I'd ever seen on a shopping spree - a bucket full of hand grenades.

No joke, it even had a sign above it that read, "Warning, Do Not Pull Out Pin!" Sure they were just for practice, and sure they couldn't do anything more than give you a nasty bruise, but it still bears repeating: sitting in front of me was… A BUCKET FULL OF HAND GRENADES!

I had to buy one.

The woman who sold it to me said they were a popular item and were probably just an "impulse buy." I agreed, saying "I had just impulsively bought one so I could rush home and impulsively use it as a paper weight for my impulsive letters to the John Birch Society, and others who believe in preserving the rights of ordinary citizens who act impulsively buying hand grenades and other weapons of mass limb removalry."

This seemed to confuse her, so she turned her attention to a young boy attempting to relive his sister's braid from her head with an ornate samurai sword.

After the sale, I slung her plastic camouflage shopping bag over my wrist and headed toward a crowd of young boys encircling a display of flamboyant novelty knives. These weren't your typical jack knives either. They were something that came straight from the twisted imagination of comic book fanatics and skinners of intergalactic, multi-nostriled beasts.

A short, pudgy boy of 14 carefully picked one up, admiring its deadly, curved double- blades and skull and cross bones handle. I took it out of his hands, slowly waving it in the air.

"Hey, this thing is pretty badass. What would you do with it any way? I doubt you could whittle a birch bark canoe with these two weirdo blades."

He looked at me with wide eyes. "Oh, I'd stab someone with it." I looked back at him with matching seriousness.

"Well hell yes…especially if he was a Siamese twin…two for the price of one." This seemed to startle him, but it didn't stop us from continuing to admire the knife.

"Yeah," I said, "You could do some serious damage with this thing - maybe even take down a politician or two. Hey, how much is this psychoknife anyway?" It turns out the freakish, medieval space blade was only $12.99, stand and all, including its "Made in China" sticker.

The seller was just a kid himself, no more than 13. He was busy wrapping up other novelty items that would no doubt be used to accidentally separate some little sister's knee cap from its joint. Seeing an unboxed paint ball gun on display, I decided to pick his brain.

"Hey kid, what's the deal with these paint ball guns anyway? Is it legal to open fire on someone, say…in the lower Garden District…after midnight?"

He was an earnest kid, and I could tell he was hell bent on educating his clientele. He squeezed his eyebrows together and looked thoughtful.

"Well, not exactly. They aren't illegal, but you really shouldn't be shootin' 'em off on the street."

I pressed on. "So if a kid shot a paintball at you, say…in your car, and you shot him back, do you think that would be legal?"

He looked increasingly thoughtful. "Well…first I'd make sure there weren't any cops around…it might not be exactly legal, but I'd say yes…it'd be okay to go ahead and shoot back."

While we were chatting, the kid wrapped up an eight-bladed knife called "The Tarantula" which was shaped like a gigantic, flesh-ripping spider. I picked up one of his paint ball guns pretending to fire it, but it just didn't seem hardcore enough for any kind of serious revenge. I wanted real ammunition, not some gooey ball that came from a Glidden plant.

As I looked around the convention hall for something a little more satisfying, I spotted my husband, Todd, aiming a Glock .22 with an infrared night vision laser at the forehead of a police officer who was standing across the room. I slide up behind him.

"Hey Mike."

"Hey Bill."

"Planning on offing a police officer at my very first gun show?" I said, eyeing a healthy display of ammunition that sat on a table next to us.

"Yeah, I was thinking about it. Uniforms make me nervous, and I swear that cop's wearing women's underwear. See how he keeps adjusting his pants with his elbows."

He slid the chamber, snapping it into place. "These cops are only here to arrest anyone later who use what they buy here now. " He continued pointing the gun Swat-style at the officer's chest. "Hey, you should take a look at that guy behind me. He has a device that can attach to any gun making it a legal automatic…really scary."

My husband thinks gun collectors are crazy, imbalanced nut jobs, but he looked surprisingly comfortable pointing a $500 hand gun at the N.O.P.D.

Ignoring his pithy social commentary, I slipped off to the neighboring table to investigate the automatic trigger riding device. Among the immense cache of weapons and ammunition this particular guy was selling, sat a photo of an attractive woman holding a gun with a target superimposed over her head. Attached to it was a small brass label reading "Ex-wife." With so much deadly weaponry around, I was afraid to ask if he had bagged and mounted her after the divorce. (Actually, if he had mounted her more, there probably wouldn't have been a divorce.) Instead, I focused on the gadget he was selling.

I tucked my hand grenade in my armpit and traced my finger over his display rifle.

"You mean with this little automatic attachment I could actually turn my Great-grandfather's deer hunting rifle into a kind of machine gun?" I said, growing increasingly excited. "And instead of just taking down one deer, I could wipe out a whole freakin' herd? Boy, that would really boost efficiency and maximize productivity in the hunting arena, don't ya think?"

He smiled at me slowly then looked at my husband, trying to figure out if I was joking. He then picked up a small Smith and Wesson J-frame revolver and handed it to me.

"Now this here's the kind of gun I'd equip any lady in my life with. It's easy to handle and fits right in a purse. My ex-wife used to love using it for target practice. She'd aim right at the targets crotch and laugh and laugh…" I held it in my hand, aiming it at the guy's privates. I must say, it did feel pretty good. I admired it from all angles, cocking it at an overhead light.

"Hey, do you think I could snuff out my neighbors Cockatoo with this thing? It seems like it would be the perfect size."

The salesman raised his eyebrows and considered it for a moment. He said I could, but I'd probably want to wait 'till they weren't home first.

I nodded in agreement then furrowed my brow, thinking about his ex-wife using the gun just for target practice.

"Target practice?" I said. "That seems like kind of a waste to me. I mean, what good is firing off bullets if you aren't going to kill someone with them? After all, that's what they were designed for, right?"

He gave me a surprised look and stepped back, knocking into a large display of tactical precision rifles.

"Damn girl, you're makin' me nervous! Are you Arabic or something? You're gonna have the Department of Homeland Security comin' after you." I set the gun down and thought about it for a minute.

"Hang on now…you're arming my whole neighborhood with semi automatic handguns, without even doing a background check, and I make you nervous? Shouldn't we just accept the fact that guns are for killing people we don't like."

He looked at my husband in amazement. "Jesus Christ, is she always this way?"

He gazed stoically at the gun guy and shrugged. "She's like a Corvair - nice sight lines, but dangerous at any speed."

I picked up the gun one last time and it dawned on me, I didn't really need a gun after all. It's the bullets that do all the damage, what I really needed was a handful of bullets, or maybe just one big bullet. If I threw it straight and hard enough, it would probably be just as effective.

"Hey," I said, "Forget the guns for a minute, whatcha got in the line of extremely large bullets?"

Embarrassed, he guided me to the ammo section of his table and pulled out a .05 caliber rifle bullet that was so big it was easily the size of my head (and I have a pretty big head).

"Damn," I yelled, "That's gotta be the largest bullet in Western captivity! It'll go really well with my new hand grenade - I'll take it. Hey, do you think I could have it engraved?"

The gun guy shrugged and handed it over, telling me not to do anything stupid like put it in direct sunlight, or drop it, or throw it around too much. Apparently, if I punctured the bottom, it would do something crazy like tear a hole through a cement wall…or my trachea.

"Excellent," I thought. It was just what I was looking for. 
                              

Satisfied with our purchases, we headed toward the exit. On the way out, we said goodbye to the cop, who really seemed happy to have someone to talk to. I asked him if he knew of any bullet engravers at the gun show. He said he didn't, but he did know a guy who could embroider ".58 Caliber Love Machine" on a baseball cap over in aisle 6.

As we walked out, an 18-year-old kid wearing immense pants and a Public Enemy t-shirt held a brand new hand gun and clip in its Styrofoam box. His eyes met the cops in recognition.

"Hey," he nodded.

"Hey." The cop adjusted his pants and nodded back.