Shooting with The Boys

Creaaaak.

A small group of people trailed out of the musty, poorly lit room. If you tried to distinguish each individual within the crowd, you would find wrinkled adults and baby-faced teenagers walking alongside each other. Among them were three particularly sleepy high school graduates, eager to escape the monotonous lecture they had just listened to.

Stepping into the lobby of a shabbily maintained building, you could see them clearly:

A girl wearing a denim romper, and a bun on her head.

A tall, dark-skinned boy who could’ve passed for a celebrity idol with his platinum hair.

And a slim guy with an unexplainable glimmer in his eyes.

Who were they, you might ask?

It was us—Coco, Ravi, and Via.

“That was soooo tedious,” Coco yawned. “Do you think I’ll get fined for drooling on their notes?”

“Probably not,” Ravi replied. “I wish we got to keep them, though. I’d like to review the tips and guidelines at home later.”

“Why? They’re guns. You just hold them and pull the trigger.”

“Ehhh...”

“Well either way, it’s probably easier to learn through practice,” I replied. “We’re licensed now!”

Holding up my glossy printed card in the air, I admired the legal privileges were implied by its ownership. We’d endured fourteen hours of lectures and a written exam in order to acquire this:

Our firearms license.

“I’m still stuck with the minor’s license,” Ravi lamented. “So I couldn’t practice alone even if I want to.”

“It’s fine,” Coco said. “This is all so I can beat Prius at that shooting competition.”

“Are you sure you’ll pay for our course fees, Coco?” I asked. “It was a couple hundred dollars.”

“Don’t worry about it. I told you I had a discount, it’s my treat. Look, he’s here.”

The sliding doors opened to reveal Prius, strutting through the shooting centre with a pair of sunglasses and an irritatingly smug smirk. He carried what appeared to be a suitcase in each hand, with one longer fabric case slinging over his back.

“Are those... guns?” I questioned.

“Yuup. My dad has a nice collection of them,” Prius replied proudly. “I can’t take them out here, so we’ll have to sign our papers and head to the range.”

“Gotcha.” “Yup.” “Yessir.”

With the three of us lined up in front of Prius, it looked like we were soldiers receiving a stern lecture from our drill sergeant.

“Now before we head in, let’s do a quick debrief,” he stated, handing each of us a gun case. “Always point the gun forwards, or at the floor. Never point it at another person or their body part. When inside, keep the earmuffs on unless you want to blow your eardrums. Safety goggles are also necessary, just because.

“Now before we head in, everyone signs their own papers—but since Ravi’s a minor, one of us will have to sign his too. Only three people get to shoot at a time—since Ravi’s a minor, someone must be within five meters of him at all times, although the staff won’t mind if he has a youth license. If anything happens to Ravi, we are legally at fault—since he’s a minor. Alright, come grab your adult-sized earmuffs. Except Ravi, since he’s a-“

“Fine! I get it, I’ll just grow up faster,” Ravi whined. “I’m bigger than all of you, so at least give me the biggest earmuffs!”

We snickered at his outburst and started moving. Papers were signed, and rules were reiterated by the staff. The process was a tad tedious, but I appreciated that this institution took gun safety seriously.

Once we donned the earmuffs, a scruffy middle-aged man guided us into the soundproofed range. Carrying one of Prius’s suitcases inside, I could smell an acrid, metallic burning in the air as bullets were fired.

Tack. Tack. Ta-tack.

Each gunshot was noticeably loud, despite my airtight earmuffs dampening the sound. I felt unease knowing that the only thing keeping me from permanent deafness were two cups on the side of my head.

The employee led us past multiple experienced-looking gunslingers as their glazed eyes locked on the target. My eyes landed on one man with a bolt-action rifle aiming through his scope. He inhaled. then exhaled slightly... and stopped. Before letting go the rest of his breath, he pulled the trigger.

Bang!

Its sound startled me. His gun was evidently of a higher calibre than some of the others. If I had known, I would’ve stood a little farther.

“...Via! Via!”

I turned to see Prius shouting. The others were already near the end of the hallway. It was hard to hear in this place without reading lips.

We were conveniently placed adjacent to each other and given multiple rolls of target posters. Each enclosed booth was small and cozy, with a large countertop to place your firearms. Past the countertop was a window that led into the spacious shooting range, where bullets zipped by every second.

There were clips at the top of each booth attached to a cable that extended along the length of the range. I presumed that’s where we would clip the target posters.

“Each of you grab a booth!” Prius yelled. “I’ll help you with the guns one by one!”

I grabbed the one closest to us, placing my suitcase on the counter. There were buttons on the side with various labels:

Reset, 10m, 15m, 25m, 50m, 100m.

Pressing the fifty-meter button out of curiosity, the cables at the top zipped the clips away.

So these buttons control the shooting distance.”

I reset the distance.

Prius walked in and nudged me to the side. He plopped a tub of bullets on the counter, fiddled with the combination lock on the suitcase, and promptly lifted the lid to reveal a sleek black pistol with its magazine nested to the side. The engraving on the side read “GSG-1911”.

“Are you familiar with reloading and shooting!?” He shouted.

“Yeah!” I shouted back. “I think so!”

“Let me shoot a couple for you first!”

“Okay!”

Prius loaded the empty magazine with a few bullets, before pushing it in through the bottom of the grip. He pulled back the slide and took aim, closing his left eye.

Tick! Tick! Tick!

The gun was remarkably quiet, and its recoil barely shook Prius’s steady hands. Golden bullet cases were ejected from the gun’s top and fell on the floor. He flicked the safety lock and put the slide back into place, before setting down the pistol.

I examined one of the bullets—it was slightly smaller than the last joint of my pinky finger.

“Is this a twenty-two!?” I asked.

“Yup! So is the rifle! The revolver is fourty-five!”

“The other one a revolver!?”

“Yup! Tell me when you’re done, and I’ll switch out the guns!”

Prius left my booth.

Clipping the target poster into place, I tapped the fifteen-meter button and held down a button on the side of the gun. The empty magazine smoothly dropped onto the counter. As I pushed in each piece of lead, it got progressively harder to load the gun. At ten bullets it appeared to be full.

“Magazine...” I whispered to myself. “Check.”

Click.

“Slide... check.”

Click.

“Aim...”

This pistol had no scope. There were, however, two small sights—one near, one far. By lining them up horizontally and vertically, the bullet should theoretically shoot straight.

Breathe in...

“Huu..”

Breathe out slightly...

“Haa...”

And pull-the-trigger-before-letting-out-the-rest-of-my-breath.

Tack!

“Haa,” I sighed.

My arms barely flinched in response to the recoil. It was bearable. Looking around my empty cubicle, I remembered that I was alone.

...My first time shooting a gun, and no witnesses or recordings. What a shame.

I tapped the reset button to take a closer look at my shot. Only a couple centimeters away from the middle.

Not bad... but I could’ve sworn that the sight was right over the bullseye.

It was at that very moment when I realized that gun physics in videogames were a sham and couldn’t be trusted. Crosshairs didn’t exist. Real gunplay depended on many factors such as wind, gravity, steady hands, good eyesight, and weapon calibration. Even as an experienced player of first-person shooters, I held no power here.

I tapped the twenty-five-meter button and started taking my target practice seriously. Eventually, I stopped controlling my breathing as well. It didn’t seem to make much of a difference with the pistol.

Tack. Tack. Tack.

My ears grew accustomed to the sound of muffled gunshots. Not even the blast of high calibre hunting rifles startled me anymore. I continued shooting with the tempo of ambient gunfire.

Tack. Tack. Tack...

o

I never thought gunfire could be so therapeutic.

Ravi and I stood in the hall between Coco and Prius’s booths. We were watching their shooting contest. They each took turns using the revolver and the small rifle, shooting twelve rounds on each. The bullseye was worth five points, and the outer rings were worth four, three, two, and one points respectively.

“How did you do!?” I asked Ravi, half-shouting.

“Pretty good!” he replied, unrolling his target poster. Every single one of his bullets landed within a couple centimeters of the bullseye, making a gaping hole in the middle. Despite his poor gunplay in our gaming session, he performed even better than I did when it came to real guns.

I showed him my target poster.

“Not bad!”

“Thanks!”

Coco finally emerged from her booth, with the small rifle encased and locked.

“Is Prius done yet!?”

“Nope!”

“Come watch this!” Prius yelled, waving us over. He stood within his booth with his feet shoulder width apart. Lowering the revolver to his hip, he hovered his other hand over the hammer.

Bangbangbangbangbangbang!

Prius rapidly dumped all six bullets into the freshly-changed target. I squealed internally. The way he fired from his hip reminded me of the protagonist from my favourite wild-west videogame.

Resetting the cable, I saw that four of the six bullets landed, although none of them were within the inner two rings.

Being a cowboy must’ve been hard.

“Let’s go outside!” Prius yelled.

“Wanna grab food?!” Ravi suggested.

“What?!”

“Food!!”

“Boob?!”

Coco slapped Prius’s arm.

o

Basil, tomato, cheese, and pepperoni. Their seductive scents mixed in the air and beckoned our bellies to groan in anticipation.

Before we left the range, Coco had procured a gift card out of her pockets for a popular pizza place. Thankfully, we were famished enough to finish the small feast that she had ordered.

“Sooo...” Prius started. “What do you guys think about a hunting trip?”

“Sure.” “Nope.” “Nope.”

Coco looked at Ravi and I in confusion.

“Why not?” she asked.

“What’s the point?” Ravi asked. Ah, the environmentalist. “Look at how easily we’re getting food right now. There’s no need to trek into the wilderness, risking life and limb, all while disturbing the wildlife—just to make elk stew. There’s even farms around the city where they sell that meat. Why not support local, if that’s what you want? I say it’s better for the environment if we just let wildlife be wildlife. We’ve industrialized enough of nature as it is, there’s no need to bother animals on their own turf.”

“But it’s an experience. Humans are hunter-gatherers—we’re literally built for this,” Prius argued. When did he become an evolutionary scientist? “I’d say it’s even a way of appreciating our roots. Plus, if you’re worried about nature, there’s sustainable ways to do it. We can just stick to designated areas and hunt according to regulations. It’s not like the government hasn’t thought about protecting the wildlife before.”

“You know, it’s not like farms are that ethical either,” Coco pointed out. “Animals can be treated pretty badly there. Maybe if more people go hunting, that might change. We kill them painlessly, waste less of the carcass, and buy less unethically produced meat.”

Even I was impressed by her arguments. It’s as if she knew everything that made Ravi tick.

“I heard that animal farms are also bad for the environment because they cause global warming and spread diseases or something,” she added.

“What does spreading diseases have to do with the environment?” Ravi asked.

“I dunno, but it’s bad. Point is, buying from farms doesn’t necessarily beat hunting.”

We sat in brief silence, each of us contemplating the topic amidst the restaurant’s hectic evening commotion. Our waitress arrived with our two pizzas and fries.

Donair pizza and meat lover’s pizza. One was a large disc of deliciousness, topped by shredded meat and drizzled over with the sweetest of cream sauces. The other was a plate dripping with appetizing meaty oils surrounding dazzling medallions of pepperoni, finished with tiny meatballs floating in its ocean of cheese and tomato paste.

Drooling from practically every orifice, Prius leaned in to snatch a slice.

“Wait!” I called out. “Let me take a picture, it looks so good.”

“Me too,” Coco said.

Ravi seemed to agree as well, having already whipped out his smartphone. Unable to protest, Prius gave in and sloppily snapped a few pictures on his own device.

Once we were done posting on socials, we started digging in. Strands of cheese clung onto each slice as we removed it from its whole.

“You know, almost everything we do is bad for the environment,” Prius claimed. “Whether we farm or hunt or even use electricity, people will complain about how it’s doing some kind of damage to nature. It’s as if humans simply existing is bad enough. Why not pick the method that seems the most natural? Hunting seems to be it.”

“If humans are the problem, then there’s another use for our firearms license,” Coco joked.

“Shhhh!” I was appalled. “Don’t say something like that in public. You’re going to get cancelled.”

“Mmm...” Ravi contemplated. “You know, nature’s not so weak that humans could bring it down—the best we can do is alter things for our own convenience. Like controlling wildfires and modifying rocky slopes to prevent disasters that could harm us. That being said, there’s no need to meddle with animal populations more than necessary.”

“Then why not hunt something that reproduces fast and isn’t endangered?” Coco suggested.

Coco grabbed a toothpick and skewered a mini-meatball, holding it up like a trophy.

“Like rabbits or pigeons,” she continued. “Or some other kind of bird. Small animals reproduce super-fast, and there’s virtually a use for every part of the animal.”

“Maybe...” Ravi thought out loud. “I remember my dad bringing home a rabbit once. I think I’m okay with that idea.”

“What about you, Via?” Prius asked. “Are you down to shoot bunnies?”

“...I’m still against it.”

“Why?”

I cleared my throat. “Hath not a bunny eyes? Hath not a bun-”

“Stop it Via, we’re in public.”

“...Sorry. But to answer your question, I’m not like Ravi, who only cares about the idea of wasting food. I mean, that’s part of it—but I’m just against the idea of taking a life, you know? Whether it’s for food or for sport.”

“But you eat food.”

“The meat in grocery stores is already dead, so it’d be more of a waste not to eat it.”

“Fair. But you’re still too soft on the animals bro,” Prius concluded.

As we kept eating, I continued my thoughts out loud between generous bites of pizza.

“So we know Prius loves guns and other manly stuff. Ravi’s the nature guy, and I’m just soft, which explains our stances on hunting. But what about you, Coco? You never seemed like the hunting type.”

She shrugged. “I just want to play with everyone. Animals are cutre, but... I’ve never owned a pet or anything.”

“Me neither.”

“Well I don’t know about you, but it’s just easier for me to think about animals – especially wild ones – in a detached way, since I’ve never really been attached to one. And I’m not as soft as you.”

“...”

“Well compassionate or not, it’s a different story when the animal is in your scope,” Ravi said. “At least, that’s what I heard—my dad tells me stories about people hesitating and freezing up when they hunt for the first time. It’s different than you would imagine—just like how shooting guns today was way different than in the videogame.”

“Couldn’t it be the opposite way around?” I asked. “You sucked at the game but did pretty well in real life.”

“Well...”

Coco choked on her water.

“Anyhow,” Prius said, snickering. “The best thing we can do is give the animal a painless death—” he turned to Ravi. “—and not waste any of the food.”

“...Let’s talk about this another day,” I said. “Finish the food in front of us first. I’m full.”

“You have such a small stomach,” Ravi commented.

“Mm!” Coco exclaimed, her mouth still full. “Wha amow da febifo?”

“What?”

She swallowed and procured two colourful tickets from her pocket.

“What about the Summer Stampede? It’s next week. Since Prius has two already, we can all go.”

“...”

The rest of us were dumbfounded. First she paid for the licenses, then for the pizza, then for the upcoming carnival.

“...Where are you getting this money from?”