Gun Sickness

I still remember the 1st GSW I saw.

Went from assault, to murder, in a matter of minutes.

Completely fucking bled out.

As in O.

U.

Fucking T.

OUT.

Unclamped his aorta, and BOOM!

“Time of death…,” and all walked out – ‘cept me.

And then, there’s the drug deal gone bad.

Etc., etc.

And the .22 to the temple.
There’s a reason it’s called “gray matter.”

And the one where no one could figure out where he was shot… until I found the powder burns around his nostril.

And the mother who lost her only son.

Yeah.

Like Mother Mary.

We looked at each other & said not a word as I caught her while she started to collapse.
Her soul spoke volumes w/o words.

I went & hid behind the curtains in an empty slot in the Trauma bay, looked out over the city & wept.

I could hardly compose myself.

Gawddamn.

That is some shit.

The scumbag dealers of death want us to forget that “those who live by the sword will die by the sword.”

Prophets of profit.
Ministers of misery.
Purveyors of pain.
Balladeers with bullets.
Thieves of time.
Luxuriating liars.
Cold steel hearts.
Barrels of blood.
Gunpowder girls.

Children dancing with death.
Devils with human hands.
Manufacturers of the merciless.
Dead eyes.
Cheap shots.
Raining bullets.
Shell shocked.
Locked and loaded.
All clear.
Trigger happy.
Russian roulette.
Drive bys.
Going postal.
Full auto.
One shot.
Blunderbuss.
Red sticks.

Flintlocks.
Kentucky rifles.
Revolver.
Clips.
Magazines.
Butts.
Lock, stock, and barrel.
Wet powder.
Smokeless powder.
Black powder.
Rifling.
Draw a bead.
Silencer.
Machine gun.
Shotgun wedding.
Concealed carry.
Holster.
Pistol.
Bandolier.
Gun leather.
Pistol rug.
Gun safe.
Pistol whip.

Safety off.
Long shot.
Bird shot.
Buck shot.
Rifleman.
Sniper.
Active shooter.
Full choke.
Double barrel.
Derringer.
Tommy gun.
Saturday Night Special.
AK.
AR.
Glock.
Colt.
45.
30-06.
3030.
12 gauge.
410.
Remington.
Uzi.
Elephant gun.
50 cal.
Tracer rounds.
Exit wound.
Multi shot.

Sawed off.
Short barrel.
Over and under.
Gatling gun.
Ivory handles.
Blue steel.
Nickle plated.
Itchy trigger finger.
Misfire.
Hollowpoint.
FMJ.
Ball round.
Primer.
Cartridge.
Jammed.
Squeeze one off.
Subsonic round.
Empty brass.
Reload.
Banana clip.
Armor piercing.
Bulletproof.

Hammer.
Center fire.
Magazine.
Rimfire.
Lower receiver.
Bolt action.
Street sweeper.
Aim low.
Shoot high.
Ricochet.
Folding stock.
Pistol grip.
Flash suppressor.
Barrett.
Browning.
Windage.
Downrange.
Shooting gallery.
Shooting fish in a barrel.
Kick.
Muzzle rise.
Desert Eagle.

44.
Muzzle velocity.
Straight shooter.
Firepower.
Rapid fire.
Dumdum bullets.
Ready aim fire.
Point blank range.
Dead on.
Deadly accuracy.
Single shot.
.
.
.
Our vernacular is replete with blatant firearms references & imagery.

It’s commonplace.

Fully integrated.

Widely accepted.

How sick is that?

Seriously.

We daily pepper our speech with terminology used for and about firearms.

Some more than others.

Think about what it does to our minds, how it subtly changes our thoughts, so that we casually refer to death & destruction – as if it meant nothing.

Only until the unimaginably catastrophic, the viciously violent becomes as equally commonplace as our references to firearms, only then will we act.

We’ve already arrived, but don’t know it.

We’re anesthetized.

Stuporously soporific.

Paralyzed by fear.

The fear that we’ll lose something more important than life.

Guns.

“…when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

Let it kiss you at night.

Embrace your carcass.

Warm your casket.

Comfort your afflictions.
Heal your diseases.
Cook your supper.
Raise your children.

Alienate you.

What sort of sickness is that?