Someone that works for me recently picked up a cool rifle and was telling us about it. I had to have it. I got to use it the day after it arrived and I wanted to write a cool review. As I started to type, it turned into a story that I thought some of you may enjoy. I sent it to the company as a testimonial, I'll let you know if they respond.
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Given the current climate I felt it prudent to increase our family's firepower, so I began the paperwork process and ordered up a new rifle. It came in on a Wednesday and I figured I would take it to the range over the weekend to sight it in, shake any bugs out, and make sure everything was kosher. Little did I know at the time, Fate had a different plan.
It was Thursday, early in the afternoon. I decided I would spend a little time with the wife today and make the journey to meet her for lunch. I gave her a call to make sure she was free, then grabbed my wallet, cell phone, and keys, and headed down the hallway to her make-shift office in our living room. We were sitting there, catching up on life over a warm plate of tater tots, when the threat first appeared out of the corner of my eye. In an instant, the world around me slowed to a crawl. My pupils dilated, muscles tensed up, and my heart doubled it's tempo as a tingle swept over my body. This is it; fight or flight. A protector, or a coward. When the rat droppings hit the fan, which would I be? This question haunted me for most of my adult life. It's a question that cannot be answered definitively until the day comes. It is, quite simply, the ultimate test. I finished my breath, opened my mouth, and screamed at the top of my lungs...
"Contact!"
I scramble to get out of my chair and get my family to safety. Everything feels so slow, like time is standing still. The wife is closest to me. I run to her side of the table, grab her by the back of the neck and slam her face-first into the floor. Bloodied, confused and scared, she cowers under the solid wooden structure; frozen by the violence that has just erupted around her. My oldest son is next. It's his lunch period at school and rather than play Warzone on his computer, he's decided this particular day to come out to the living room, throw Twitch on the TV, and watch other people play Warzone on their computers. I turn towards him and sprint with everything my 200-pound body has. The look on his face is undeniable; pure ... unadulterated ... terror. I grab him by his shirt with both of my hands and rip him from the couch shouting "Move, Move, Move!" as I scan the area trying to get a position on the enemy. My youngest is outside the immediate danger zone. He's in his room watching Anime on his computer while his math teacher gives a lesson over a muted and minimized Google Classroom. The headphones may have drowned out the clarity of my words, but he hears the screams and he felt the floor shake as his mother's face hit the deck; he knows something is going down.
My oldest stumbles. While taller than me, his legs just can't keep up with the speed and fury my feet are exerting. I pull at his flailing body as hard as can. I feel his tee-shirt tearing apart, I just need it to hold together a few moments longer. Within seconds we're at the door to the boy's bedroom, I twist my torso with everything my obliques have to offer and throw my oldest son's body at the door as I turn my attention to getting to my armory. His 6'2" frame careens into the door hard enough to break the latch. His younger brother has just gotten to the door himself, about to open it from the other side to see what all the commotion is about when it burst open, slamming into his tiny body and sending him halfway across the room. I can relax a little now, the boys are safe for a moment. The wife however, is still in grave danger. Back in my office now, I find the brown box I received less than 24 hours earlier, and tear into it like a rabid 9 year-old on Christmas Day. The weapon system is intact, but un-tested. Will it work? Will it jam? Is there something I'm supposed to do with it before firing? There's no time to RTFM, I'm going to have to wing it. I turn my attention to the safe, feet away, where I store all of my ammunition and as I soon as my eyes lock on the keypad, my heart comes to a screeching halt; I have no ammo for this rifle in this room.
The ammo I need is in the kitchen, and to get to the kitchen means going back to ground zero. Back to the front lines, and beyond! I howl as hard my lungs can muster and explode out of my den like a man possessed, hoping that if my enemy is waiting to ambush me I might startle or confuse him. Luckily for me his attention is elsewhere, I just wish I knew where. I creep my way back up the hallway, briefly looking in on the boys as I pass their room. Both are unconscious, but breathing, and that's all that matters right now. The archway to the living room is in sight now. I approach from the side, pieing my way around as I feverishly scan for an entrenched combatant. Baby, Wifey! I can see her. She's right where I left her. A quick assessment tells me her forehead is bleeding from where it smashed into the edge of the table, and her nose is definitely broken and gushing, but she's awake and alert. Crying and scared, her eyes lock onto mine. As her mouth begins to open, I put my finger to my lips and shake my head slowly. Shhhhh Baby .... shhhhh. She mouths the letters, "W" "T" "F". It takes me a second to figure out what that means, and when it hits me I realize she's seen him. She's looked Death in all three eyes.
Where's. The. Fly.
There's no time to waste. I scurry across the archway to the final stop on this train we call "the hallway" and slide across the tiles on my knees, slamming into the spice drawer at full speed. I tear it open and grab the ammo instinctively. I pop the magazine lid on the rifle clutched in my weak-side hand and just as I'm about to load her up, I realize I grabbed the wrong caliber. Fine!! I grabbed the fine!! Nothing but coarse will do for this fight. I throw the fine salt across the room and blindly reach my hand into the rack to grab the next bottle as I furiously scan my surroundings for the threat. Got the next bottle; Paprika - damn it!!!! One after the other; pepper, oregano, onion powder, baking soda ... I rip bottle after bottle out of the pantry and hurl them at the speed of sound in a blind rage of frustration. I can hear my wife screaming to me. I'm too focused on my current tasks to understand what she's saying, but I try to calm her down. "Stay down!", I scream, "The kids are fine and I'm coming for you! No one puts Baby in a corner!"
My voice jumps a couple of octaves as I say that and I sound like a scared 4 year-old girl, but none of that matters. After 3 minutes and enough product to fully stock a super-market, I find the coarse salt. I tear the lid off the container and dump the contents over the magazine. As I try to put the magazine's cap back on, I realize I've induced a weapons system malfunction. I've put too many rounds into the mag and the cap will not close. Think fast Billy, think fast, you are their only hope. The knife drawer is near. I yank it open, grab the 8" chef's knife, and slide it across the top of the magazine, chucking the excess ammo off onto the floor. Magazine now closed, for the first time since our world turned upside down, a smile wanders upon my face as I work the pump-action charging handle and chamber a round of Double-O Coarse. The Hunted, is now the Hunter.
The far end of our galley kitchen is closest to my wife's last-known location, but as I scan in that direction I realize that the area is covered in spice and broken shards of glass from when the Cumin bottle annihilated the kitchen window. Additionally, some of the finer powders have created something of a cloud that makes it hard to see over there. The only way out is the way I came in. I scurry back to the archway, weapon locked and loaded and in a low-ready state. I see movement down the far end of the hallway in the boys room and realize that one of them has come out of his temporary coma. "Close the door and don't let anything in!", I scream, trying to be heard over my wife's agonizing cries. As I pie the corner into the living room once more and the teak rectangular structure that hosts our family dinners comes into view, fear once again rips through my soul; where's Baby? Where did she go?
I storm the living room like a one-man SWAT team, checking each corner as it comes into view. There she is, she's standing, she's looking at the far entrance to the kitchen and shaking her head side to side. Calm now, I whisper for her to get down. She looks in my direction and there is rage in her eyes. Behind me! She must see him, he's behind me!!! I jump and perform a 180-no-scope, blindly firing the chambered round just as I land. The round slams into the wall behind me, salt ricocheting off the paint and back into my face. My eyes sting. I try to scan as I chamber the next round. "Where is he?" I yell at my wife, "I can't see anything!". "Is he still behind me?", I yell as panic courses through my veins. "Billy!" she screams through the blood, tears, and what appears to be Cayenne Pepper that is covering her face. I briefly consider how much that might sting but that train of thought is broken when I see him for the second time today.
He's left the living room and is heading down the hallway towards the boys room. Is he scared or does he not like the smell of Curry Powder that currently dominates this portion of the apartment? I barely have time to ponder such things when I realize that the door to the boys room is open! They must not be able to close it! "Noooo", I grunt. He's far, but I might just have enough time to get there. I take three massive strides and leap into the air. My oldest is standing in the doorway, also bloody, crying, and confused. He doesn't see him, he doesn't see him! Move Buddy, you have to move for me to take the shot. He leaves me no choice, all I can do is hope that I don't hit any of his vitals. I take the best shot I can, but my one-handed leaping skills need some work. I miss Musca Domestica by mere inches and a full load of Double-O Coarse smashes into my son's chest, barely missing what's left of his favorite cotton Tee.
Jeff Goldblum, the name I've given my adversary, makes a hard right and heads into the main bathroom. Chamber empty, I think fast and pull the door shut, temporarily trapping my opponent. I drop the rifle on the floor outside the main lavatory and run to the other latrine to wash the salt out of my eyes. "Get dry Billy, water and salt do not mix. Get back to the rifle Billy, chamber another round. Save them Billy, they depend on you!" These thoughts run through my head as I try to get the salt out of my eyes. My head doesn't fit under the faucet, so I scoop water into my mouth and spit it straight up into the air like a fountain while I try to aim it correctly to fall into my eyes. This doesn't work as well as it worked in my mind's eye. Plan B then. I throw on the shower and stand under it while jamming my eye lids open with my fingers. The ice cold water stings the eyes further and briefly puts my body into shock. I take one hand off my eyes and manically spin the temperature handle. That hand returns to my face and jacks open that eye lid just in time for the fire water to hit. The salt is now gone, but the second degree burns on my face create their own issues. My eyes balls feel like they are literally on fire.
Now completely blind and screaming in agony I grab the wrong towels, you know the ones your wife forbids you from using which makes you wonder why they exist in the first place, and I furiously wipe the blood, spice, and fire-water off of my face and arms. Clothes and torso still soaking wet, I run out of the loo. Unable to see, I slam full speed into the wife's open closet, tearing shelves from the wall. I pick myself up off the water-soaked wood floor and make my way back to the gate at Jeff Goldblum's prison. What will I do now? I can't even open my eyes. I have no time to lose. I can hear my wife walking towards me, she's yelling something, I don't pay it any attention, it doesn't matter. I yell over her and tell her that I love her. I tell her that I'm going in and that she is not to open the door NO MATTER WHAT! If I don't come back out, she should know that I loved her as much as any man loved a woman. To tell my boys, the younger one after he wakes up from his concussion, that I love them too. She smacks me hard across the face. Really friggin hard. By itself it would be bad, but with my face still on fire I see stars and almost pass out. She's right-handed and my left ear now rings so bad I can't hear anything else from it. Through the intense pain I'm dealing with, I can feel her sadness. She's afraid of what might happen to me when I go in there, that's why she hit me. I'm woozy from the pain and am having a tough time standing. I reach my left arm out to grab her head and pull her in for what may very well be our last kiss, but my eyes are still shut and she isn't standing where I thought she was. I accidentally slam my fingers into her broken nose; the searing pain drops her to her knees. No kiss then. Its now or never, it's time to go in.
I chamber another round, turn towards the door to the John and thrust my right foot out. I've missed. My foot goes right through what clearly feels like two layers of sheet rock and I can tell through my closed eye lids that everything just got darker. I must have kicked the wall next to the bathroom where the hallway light switch is and yanked the power line out from the junction box. I briefly pray it doesn't start an actual fire but realize that if it did, I wouldn't be able to tell in my current state. I pull my foot back through the wall which consumes my right sneaker, make a vector correction, and launch the right foot again. Direct hit. The latch gives way and the door bursts open, the antique door handle impaling itself into the wainscot on the adjacent wall. It's a solid wood door and sans sneaker, I think I've broken my foot. I hobble in, pull the door out of the wall, close it, take off my other sneaker, and jam it under the door to keep it closed. He's here, I can hear him buzzing. It's just me and him now. Mano y mano. I can't see, I still can't open my eyes at all, but I'm trained for this; I've seen Predator. The original one.
Like Jesse Ventura with a Mini-Gun against an invisible alien, I let loose with all the firepower I have. Pumping away and pulling the trigger, I am Wrath personified. I unleash a terrifying volley of Trader Joe's finest in every direction. Walls, mirror, tub, porcelain throne ... no one is spared. My mouth is open, guttural sounds emanate from deep within, like William Wallace screaming at the end of Braveheart. Shrapnel flies everywhere, occasionally into my mouth. It tastes good but I'm going to need water soon. This isn't the time for that though. I continue my onslaught. Someone from another apartment yells at me to shut up. Round after round flies out of the barrel. Ceiling, floor, window, toilet paper holder. "You cannot hide!", I scream. Eyes still melted shut, I imagine that this scene looks a lot like the lobby shootout in the first Matrix, debris and shrapnel everywhere, suspended midair in ultra slow motion, hundreds of rounds per second leaving no stone unturned. It felt like an eternity. My Bug-A-Salt 3.0's capacity was impressive, but eventually, all guns run dry. It's over. The fight is over. All the anger, all the pain, a wave of emotions pour over me as my legs give out and I plop down on the bathroom floor. Either I got Jeff, or Jeff's about to get me. I'll know soon enough.
"Bzzt", I hear in my one good ear.
It's Jeff Goldblum, but something is off. "Bzzt", again. He's to my left, and he's hurt. The god king bleeds! I follow the sounds, slowly. His buzzing is weak, strained, I can barely hear it over the rock-concert-like ringing in my left ear. He's near the throne, I can tell by the smell as I get closer to him. Bzzt, Bzzt, Bzzt. He's scared. I must be close. On all fours, the ground is covered in seasoning that crunches under my hands as I move. I briefly lick the palm of one hand, it's salty, but there's another flavor in there I'm not familiar with. I remember that I'm near the toilet bowl and decide this isn't sanitary. I continue to search for Jeff. Bzzt, Bzzt. It sounds like he's right under me. I wonder about his family. Does he have a wife? Kids? Is this someone's son or daughter dying on my pee-stained bathroom floor? With each successfully smaller buzz, I realize how little time he has left. He was every bit the adversary a soldier could ask for. He gave me something today. He showed me my character, he showed me what I am capable of, he showed me who I truly am.
Adios Jeff Goldblum, I will miss you.
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For anyone that wants one, this thing is awesome: https://www.bugasalt.com/products/bug-a-salt-3-0-black-fly-edition
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Given the current climate I felt it prudent to increase our family's firepower, so I began the paperwork process and ordered up a new rifle. It came in on a Wednesday and I figured I would take it to the range over the weekend to sight it in, shake any bugs out, and make sure everything was kosher. Little did I know at the time, Fate had a different plan.
It was Thursday, early in the afternoon. I decided I would spend a little time with the wife today and make the journey to meet her for lunch. I gave her a call to make sure she was free, then grabbed my wallet, cell phone, and keys, and headed down the hallway to her make-shift office in our living room. We were sitting there, catching up on life over a warm plate of tater tots, when the threat first appeared out of the corner of my eye. In an instant, the world around me slowed to a crawl. My pupils dilated, muscles tensed up, and my heart doubled it's tempo as a tingle swept over my body. This is it; fight or flight. A protector, or a coward. When the rat droppings hit the fan, which would I be? This question haunted me for most of my adult life. It's a question that cannot be answered definitively until the day comes. It is, quite simply, the ultimate test. I finished my breath, opened my mouth, and screamed at the top of my lungs...
"Contact!"
I scramble to get out of my chair and get my family to safety. Everything feels so slow, like time is standing still. The wife is closest to me. I run to her side of the table, grab her by the back of the neck and slam her face-first into the floor. Bloodied, confused and scared, she cowers under the solid wooden structure; frozen by the violence that has just erupted around her. My oldest son is next. It's his lunch period at school and rather than play Warzone on his computer, he's decided this particular day to come out to the living room, throw Twitch on the TV, and watch other people play Warzone on their computers. I turn towards him and sprint with everything my 200-pound body has. The look on his face is undeniable; pure ... unadulterated ... terror. I grab him by his shirt with both of my hands and rip him from the couch shouting "Move, Move, Move!" as I scan the area trying to get a position on the enemy. My youngest is outside the immediate danger zone. He's in his room watching Anime on his computer while his math teacher gives a lesson over a muted and minimized Google Classroom. The headphones may have drowned out the clarity of my words, but he hears the screams and he felt the floor shake as his mother's face hit the deck; he knows something is going down.
My oldest stumbles. While taller than me, his legs just can't keep up with the speed and fury my feet are exerting. I pull at his flailing body as hard as can. I feel his tee-shirt tearing apart, I just need it to hold together a few moments longer. Within seconds we're at the door to the boy's bedroom, I twist my torso with everything my obliques have to offer and throw my oldest son's body at the door as I turn my attention to getting to my armory. His 6'2" frame careens into the door hard enough to break the latch. His younger brother has just gotten to the door himself, about to open it from the other side to see what all the commotion is about when it burst open, slamming into his tiny body and sending him halfway across the room. I can relax a little now, the boys are safe for a moment. The wife however, is still in grave danger. Back in my office now, I find the brown box I received less than 24 hours earlier, and tear into it like a rabid 9 year-old on Christmas Day. The weapon system is intact, but un-tested. Will it work? Will it jam? Is there something I'm supposed to do with it before firing? There's no time to RTFM, I'm going to have to wing it. I turn my attention to the safe, feet away, where I store all of my ammunition and as I soon as my eyes lock on the keypad, my heart comes to a screeching halt; I have no ammo for this rifle in this room.
The ammo I need is in the kitchen, and to get to the kitchen means going back to ground zero. Back to the front lines, and beyond! I howl as hard my lungs can muster and explode out of my den like a man possessed, hoping that if my enemy is waiting to ambush me I might startle or confuse him. Luckily for me his attention is elsewhere, I just wish I knew where. I creep my way back up the hallway, briefly looking in on the boys as I pass their room. Both are unconscious, but breathing, and that's all that matters right now. The archway to the living room is in sight now. I approach from the side, pieing my way around as I feverishly scan for an entrenched combatant. Baby, Wifey! I can see her. She's right where I left her. A quick assessment tells me her forehead is bleeding from where it smashed into the edge of the table, and her nose is definitely broken and gushing, but she's awake and alert. Crying and scared, her eyes lock onto mine. As her mouth begins to open, I put my finger to my lips and shake my head slowly. Shhhhh Baby .... shhhhh. She mouths the letters, "W" "T" "F". It takes me a second to figure out what that means, and when it hits me I realize she's seen him. She's looked Death in all three eyes.
Where's. The. Fly.
There's no time to waste. I scurry across the archway to the final stop on this train we call "the hallway" and slide across the tiles on my knees, slamming into the spice drawer at full speed. I tear it open and grab the ammo instinctively. I pop the magazine lid on the rifle clutched in my weak-side hand and just as I'm about to load her up, I realize I grabbed the wrong caliber. Fine!! I grabbed the fine!! Nothing but coarse will do for this fight. I throw the fine salt across the room and blindly reach my hand into the rack to grab the next bottle as I furiously scan my surroundings for the threat. Got the next bottle; Paprika - damn it!!!! One after the other; pepper, oregano, onion powder, baking soda ... I rip bottle after bottle out of the pantry and hurl them at the speed of sound in a blind rage of frustration. I can hear my wife screaming to me. I'm too focused on my current tasks to understand what she's saying, but I try to calm her down. "Stay down!", I scream, "The kids are fine and I'm coming for you! No one puts Baby in a corner!"
My voice jumps a couple of octaves as I say that and I sound like a scared 4 year-old girl, but none of that matters. After 3 minutes and enough product to fully stock a super-market, I find the coarse salt. I tear the lid off the container and dump the contents over the magazine. As I try to put the magazine's cap back on, I realize I've induced a weapons system malfunction. I've put too many rounds into the mag and the cap will not close. Think fast Billy, think fast, you are their only hope. The knife drawer is near. I yank it open, grab the 8" chef's knife, and slide it across the top of the magazine, chucking the excess ammo off onto the floor. Magazine now closed, for the first time since our world turned upside down, a smile wanders upon my face as I work the pump-action charging handle and chamber a round of Double-O Coarse. The Hunted, is now the Hunter.
The far end of our galley kitchen is closest to my wife's last-known location, but as I scan in that direction I realize that the area is covered in spice and broken shards of glass from when the Cumin bottle annihilated the kitchen window. Additionally, some of the finer powders have created something of a cloud that makes it hard to see over there. The only way out is the way I came in. I scurry back to the archway, weapon locked and loaded and in a low-ready state. I see movement down the far end of the hallway in the boys room and realize that one of them has come out of his temporary coma. "Close the door and don't let anything in!", I scream, trying to be heard over my wife's agonizing cries. As I pie the corner into the living room once more and the teak rectangular structure that hosts our family dinners comes into view, fear once again rips through my soul; where's Baby? Where did she go?
I storm the living room like a one-man SWAT team, checking each corner as it comes into view. There she is, she's standing, she's looking at the far entrance to the kitchen and shaking her head side to side. Calm now, I whisper for her to get down. She looks in my direction and there is rage in her eyes. Behind me! She must see him, he's behind me!!! I jump and perform a 180-no-scope, blindly firing the chambered round just as I land. The round slams into the wall behind me, salt ricocheting off the paint and back into my face. My eyes sting. I try to scan as I chamber the next round. "Where is he?" I yell at my wife, "I can't see anything!". "Is he still behind me?", I yell as panic courses through my veins. "Billy!" she screams through the blood, tears, and what appears to be Cayenne Pepper that is covering her face. I briefly consider how much that might sting but that train of thought is broken when I see him for the second time today.
He's left the living room and is heading down the hallway towards the boys room. Is he scared or does he not like the smell of Curry Powder that currently dominates this portion of the apartment? I barely have time to ponder such things when I realize that the door to the boys room is open! They must not be able to close it! "Noooo", I grunt. He's far, but I might just have enough time to get there. I take three massive strides and leap into the air. My oldest is standing in the doorway, also bloody, crying, and confused. He doesn't see him, he doesn't see him! Move Buddy, you have to move for me to take the shot. He leaves me no choice, all I can do is hope that I don't hit any of his vitals. I take the best shot I can, but my one-handed leaping skills need some work. I miss Musca Domestica by mere inches and a full load of Double-O Coarse smashes into my son's chest, barely missing what's left of his favorite cotton Tee.
Jeff Goldblum, the name I've given my adversary, makes a hard right and heads into the main bathroom. Chamber empty, I think fast and pull the door shut, temporarily trapping my opponent. I drop the rifle on the floor outside the main lavatory and run to the other latrine to wash the salt out of my eyes. "Get dry Billy, water and salt do not mix. Get back to the rifle Billy, chamber another round. Save them Billy, they depend on you!" These thoughts run through my head as I try to get the salt out of my eyes. My head doesn't fit under the faucet, so I scoop water into my mouth and spit it straight up into the air like a fountain while I try to aim it correctly to fall into my eyes. This doesn't work as well as it worked in my mind's eye. Plan B then. I throw on the shower and stand under it while jamming my eye lids open with my fingers. The ice cold water stings the eyes further and briefly puts my body into shock. I take one hand off my eyes and manically spin the temperature handle. That hand returns to my face and jacks open that eye lid just in time for the fire water to hit. The salt is now gone, but the second degree burns on my face create their own issues. My eyes balls feel like they are literally on fire.
Now completely blind and screaming in agony I grab the wrong towels, you know the ones your wife forbids you from using which makes you wonder why they exist in the first place, and I furiously wipe the blood, spice, and fire-water off of my face and arms. Clothes and torso still soaking wet, I run out of the loo. Unable to see, I slam full speed into the wife's open closet, tearing shelves from the wall. I pick myself up off the water-soaked wood floor and make my way back to the gate at Jeff Goldblum's prison. What will I do now? I can't even open my eyes. I have no time to lose. I can hear my wife walking towards me, she's yelling something, I don't pay it any attention, it doesn't matter. I yell over her and tell her that I love her. I tell her that I'm going in and that she is not to open the door NO MATTER WHAT! If I don't come back out, she should know that I loved her as much as any man loved a woman. To tell my boys, the younger one after he wakes up from his concussion, that I love them too. She smacks me hard across the face. Really friggin hard. By itself it would be bad, but with my face still on fire I see stars and almost pass out. She's right-handed and my left ear now rings so bad I can't hear anything else from it. Through the intense pain I'm dealing with, I can feel her sadness. She's afraid of what might happen to me when I go in there, that's why she hit me. I'm woozy from the pain and am having a tough time standing. I reach my left arm out to grab her head and pull her in for what may very well be our last kiss, but my eyes are still shut and she isn't standing where I thought she was. I accidentally slam my fingers into her broken nose; the searing pain drops her to her knees. No kiss then. Its now or never, it's time to go in.
I chamber another round, turn towards the door to the John and thrust my right foot out. I've missed. My foot goes right through what clearly feels like two layers of sheet rock and I can tell through my closed eye lids that everything just got darker. I must have kicked the wall next to the bathroom where the hallway light switch is and yanked the power line out from the junction box. I briefly pray it doesn't start an actual fire but realize that if it did, I wouldn't be able to tell in my current state. I pull my foot back through the wall which consumes my right sneaker, make a vector correction, and launch the right foot again. Direct hit. The latch gives way and the door bursts open, the antique door handle impaling itself into the wainscot on the adjacent wall. It's a solid wood door and sans sneaker, I think I've broken my foot. I hobble in, pull the door out of the wall, close it, take off my other sneaker, and jam it under the door to keep it closed. He's here, I can hear him buzzing. It's just me and him now. Mano y mano. I can't see, I still can't open my eyes at all, but I'm trained for this; I've seen Predator. The original one.
Like Jesse Ventura with a Mini-Gun against an invisible alien, I let loose with all the firepower I have. Pumping away and pulling the trigger, I am Wrath personified. I unleash a terrifying volley of Trader Joe's finest in every direction. Walls, mirror, tub, porcelain throne ... no one is spared. My mouth is open, guttural sounds emanate from deep within, like William Wallace screaming at the end of Braveheart. Shrapnel flies everywhere, occasionally into my mouth. It tastes good but I'm going to need water soon. This isn't the time for that though. I continue my onslaught. Someone from another apartment yells at me to shut up. Round after round flies out of the barrel. Ceiling, floor, window, toilet paper holder. "You cannot hide!", I scream. Eyes still melted shut, I imagine that this scene looks a lot like the lobby shootout in the first Matrix, debris and shrapnel everywhere, suspended midair in ultra slow motion, hundreds of rounds per second leaving no stone unturned. It felt like an eternity. My Bug-A-Salt 3.0's capacity was impressive, but eventually, all guns run dry. It's over. The fight is over. All the anger, all the pain, a wave of emotions pour over me as my legs give out and I plop down on the bathroom floor. Either I got Jeff, or Jeff's about to get me. I'll know soon enough.
"Bzzt", I hear in my one good ear.
It's Jeff Goldblum, but something is off. "Bzzt", again. He's to my left, and he's hurt. The god king bleeds! I follow the sounds, slowly. His buzzing is weak, strained, I can barely hear it over the rock-concert-like ringing in my left ear. He's near the throne, I can tell by the smell as I get closer to him. Bzzt, Bzzt, Bzzt. He's scared. I must be close. On all fours, the ground is covered in seasoning that crunches under my hands as I move. I briefly lick the palm of one hand, it's salty, but there's another flavor in there I'm not familiar with. I remember that I'm near the toilet bowl and decide this isn't sanitary. I continue to search for Jeff. Bzzt, Bzzt. It sounds like he's right under me. I wonder about his family. Does he have a wife? Kids? Is this someone's son or daughter dying on my pee-stained bathroom floor? With each successfully smaller buzz, I realize how little time he has left. He was every bit the adversary a soldier could ask for. He gave me something today. He showed me my character, he showed me what I am capable of, he showed me who I truly am.
Adios Jeff Goldblum, I will miss you.
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