The change of mores of the successive generation had descended upon Michael like the veil of a cataract. His perception dimmed of what current times entailed. Something had told him all along that he should have been a cop or maybe a soldier. Maybe both. He liked guns. As a kid his favorite pastime was to aim his finger at anything that moved and adjust for distance and windage. A natural talent. A natural born talent for reconnoitering any environment that he found himself passing through. A talent that could have been easily adapted to that of a spy or FBI agent. Instead he had taken up the blanket identity of that nebulous term, artist. Not that the two vocations were that much apart. He cringed at the thought of killing anything for real but oppositely could rack up the hit and miss or his own imaginary score card. The guns had come as a reaction to have been physically trounced a couple of times by strangers and robbed at gunpoint. He couldn’t remember the assailant’s face but that 1911 45 ACP was crystal clear in his mind’s eye even fifteen years after the fact. Not that he was scared. He felt somehow that he was bulletproof . Though he might be quickly drained of blood from seven hollow point rounds something within told hem that the person inside was incapable of demise. The spirit was the motivator of the flesh. That was his unacknowledged credo. There was an unacknowledged bond between those who were familiar with the tools. Where those who were never baptized before or behind the barrel, the efficiency of the mechanism was something to be respected but also a source of fascination. If you were to lecture those yet uninitiated he might suggest with much historical weight that it was the advancement in the design and manufacture of weaponry that had modernized society from horse drawn carts into jet engine turbine. That didn’t mean that weapons in their many varieties had become a set of idols to be worshiped. But it was indicative that despite the current shift in political expedience of governing by social indoctrination it was a dark star topic. Something to be left to the modern day Hessians of society who were there to bully the fringes of the social order into tacit acceptance. Maybe that is why he liked cops?
A cop was someone cursed to grow up with their personalities split down the middle of their being to rest its opposites on each shoulder. There were many that said that good cops had much in common with the career criminals that they encountered daily. Perhaps the epaulets were just reversed? That buzz of adrenaline lurking behind the corner of every dull minute. An elixir of possibility to be involved in something extraordinary as a result of the introduction of something foreign and aberrant. For a criminal it was snagging a prize. Tearing the meat from another set of teeth. For their nemesis it was the taste of the flesh of the thief. The use of the gun more an artful talisman to be successfully fielded only as the threat of an overwhelming limit. Not some Hollywood extravaganza showcasing engagement as a hail of rounds shot off without any hint of control. The gun was a symbol perhaps more potent lodged in its holster than when it was drawn . The former was always in evidence in the eye of the public whenever in near proximity. When the bird was loosed from its nest there was no time for contemplation of it beyond hit or miss. The stale old maxim of God having made man but Samuel Colt had made man equal. That sense of common ground had always struck Michael as a common bond that all men with weapons had shared. Not the movie version of phallic potency by caliber. But the understated fact of the effect of the implement when properly used. As far as he was concerned the ability to repeat strikes at will in a bull’s eye target was as significant as draining the life out of something living. People didn’t just instantly die when they were hit. Most times they struggled at first unable to understand the immediacy of their debilitating wounds. But after a while sinking into unrelenting pain and shock as their damaged organs leached blood both internally and otherwise out upon the street. Some in a frenzy to hang onto life. Others just ready to lay back and ask for the cycle to cease to release them from the earthly torment. It was always such a surprise to the victim how such a little hole could end up snatching away their life? That was the part that he wanted never to have to inflict. But by the fact of his willingness to employ the best technology of the day he was properly equipped to deliver.
The world of the movies and the politics behind them left him indifferent. Politicians were self-aggrandizing crooks kept in check only by the fact of their vulnerability to being voted out. The movies were magazine emptying ‘bangfests’ of pyrotechnic ‘oneupsmanship’. They took all the dignity out of the responsibility that one had to exercise. While one got the impression that simply pulling the trigger as many times as fast as possible after pointing it in the general direction did the trick. The opposite was the fact. Careful steady aim in a practiced method of calm and cool measure fire based upon repetition and training was ever deadly. There might have been a war on guns but never a sincere war on the crime that it was unfairly attached to. Murder and robbery was a state of mind. The tools could vary depending upon whatever was at hand. Those prone to unreasoning violence could kill you just as easily with a steak knife or a chair leg. Why then was the world so uncontrolled? Maybe the focus on the article that best symbolized society precluded the absurdity of having to quantify the impulse to violate society by a tangible system of classification . A guy might be well-acquainted with a pistol and its supposed efficacy as opposed to wielding a large boulder. Though the reality of their use might prove to the opposite. Not may could hope to awaken after suffering a crushed skull. The shady side of things that many of the uninitiated never met or were too well-acquainted with. The politically savvy mass media may have been more responsible for proliferating the mentality of easy violence through a false sense of power. But that lack of limit overcome by the good sense to restrain one from sending others to crossing that fatal river Styx was what it was all about. What was the point? Perhaps nothing? Nothing at all. Just idle ramblings of the mind concerning situations that would never come to pass. But ones that he and a few others of his opinion were well-equipped mentally to possibly overcome.