Terry backed the hot rod Nova into a space at the Gun Range on a Wednesday evening. It was the night of the weekly "shoot-out," an amateur target competition. She got in the trunk of the Nova and grabbed two gun cases. One held a Colt 1911, a .45 caliber semi-automatic. The other contained a Beretta Target 87, a .22 target pistol. Terry used the Colt for warm-up, and the Beretta for competition. When she first started entering the contests, she was using a Beretta 92, a 9mm cannon most commonly known as standard issue to anyone in the US military who would carry a sidearm. She had learned to shoot with a Beretta 92FS, and was comfortable with one. The Gun Range rented guns, so she would rent a 92 to use in the competition. Compared to what other contestants were using, she may as well have been using a bazooka. A friendly gun geek got her straightened out so far as what was both more practical and appropriate for target competitions, so she had picked up the Target 87 out of brand loyalty.
Terry was still an outsider. Theoretically, she was a novice shooter. She had only been using a gun for a few months. However, she was a dead-eye, she really did have a gift. The very first time she ever shot a pistol (Lenny's 92FS) she got better points than Lenny or Bekka could ever hope for. Avid practice on her part had only improved her accuracy and skill. Others there on a Wednesday night had been shooting and competing together for years. Terry was a new arrival. The bigger problem was Terry's scooter tramp sense of style. Terry was a biker bitch, and had been since the age of thirteen. Her appearance, mannerisms, and dialogue were totally foreign to the crowd of avid target shooters. She was friendly with people, but the differences in speech, attitude, and overall world view generally kept people on a level of polite cordiality, rather than open discourse.
There were a few exceptions, all single males. Despite her habit of swearing like a sailor with Tourette's and that she shook hands like a biker, her beauty could not be ignored. And it was obvious she took the sport seriously. The men who spoke with her were quietly fascinated, here was a sexy woman who was into guns and target work as deeply as they were. Terry was friendly, quick to smile, quick to laugh, and the single men were awestruck by her boisterousness. This caused some confusion. Not only did Terry act and dress like a guy, she acted and dressed like an outlaw biker. Some suggested she was a butch dyke, but those who had heard Terry talk about the opposite sex vetoed that hypothesis. Terry would happily admit that her primary initial requirements of a man be he was hung, hard, and had stamina. Her frankly carnal view of interaction between the sexes intimidated the single men. None of them felt they had enough on the ball to be with her, so they never asked her out.
One guy who was different was Gerald. He was the one who first pulled her aside and explained that a cannon like a Beretta 92 was the wrong choice of pistols for indoor target work. If they had been out on a military range and doing combat simulations, it would have been fine, but her rented Beretta had a report like a cannon and would shred the targets. He gave her demonstrations of his .22 target pistols and lots of advice. As thanks, Terry took Gerald out to a nearby strip club named Dirty Dan's for a few beers. They had been joined by a contingent of San Diego Hell's Angels, all friends of Terry's. Gerald had only ever seen Hell's Angels on the TV news. Now he was sitting at a table with several of them, Terry talking to them with total ease and comfort. They had all been friendly and accepting of Gerald --- hey, if he was hanging out with Terry the Terror, he must be Good People --- but Gerald's knowledge of Hell's Angels came from sensational news stories and gossip. He stuck around for a while, then left.
But Gerald was enthralled with Terry. Here was a good-looking (and sexy) girl who was an avid shooter, had more self-confidence than he had ever seen in any woman, and seemed to be utterly fearless. She hung out with Hell's Angels for fun! She rode a Harley and drove a street rod Nova. And since she considered Gerald a friend, she always greeted him with a hug and a kiss.... More contact with a woman than he'd had in years. She had mentioned her predilection for hanging around the Gun Range like it was a mall arcade, so Gerald started dropping in at random hours of the day and night, hoping to pinpoint a pattern of when Terry would be there. There wasn't one. He still did manage to bump into her on a couple occasions, her greeting him like long-lost kin and buying him a fancy coffee from the barista. Gerald's life was no thrill ride, while Terry worked at a porn studio part time and was also a bodyguard, keeping an eye out for celebrity sex bomb Becky Page. She always had stories about weird behavior on the part of fans. In Gerald's life, it was calamity if the copier at his office broke.
Gerald pulled his Dodge Omni into the lot and parked. He looked over and saw Terry's hot rod, with Terry leaning against the hood smoking a cigarette. He steeled himself and approached. Gerald had never been one to interact with girls well. His deepest desire was to ask Terry to join him in a motel room for the weekend and see what transpired. Every woman he had ever known would have been shocked and offended by this invitation, and he figured Terry would be too, so he was working up his nerve to ask her out for dinner. He was demonstrating how little he really knew about Terry Patton. The motel idea would have sounded great to her.
Terry saw him coming and straightened up off the hood, grinning and swinging an arm up in the air for a hug. "Dude!" she exclaimed. "How ya doing, sweetie?"
"Fine, fine," said a nervous Gerald. He had felt Terry's Colt Defender in its shoulder holster when she hugged him. Carrying concealed was a big deal. Cops and spooks carry concealed, biker babes don't. She had explained to him her part-time gig as a bodyguard, but he still felt a little nervous being around someone who carried a gun for no other reason than they might have to shoot another person someday. She'd told him that crazy shit seemed to happen around her bosses and friends Becky and Lenny, so they wanted her heeled, just in case. She said she'd never had the Defender out of its holster outside a range, but liked feeling prepared in case "crazy shit" went down.
"Aw, dude!" exclaimed Terry, whacking him on the arm. "Shit, last week was bughouse. Some motherfucker from another porn studio was getting in Lenny's face. Then he got in the face of fuckin' Angel, Lenny's boss. And he got in mine, too. I ended up bouncing him off a minivan and hinting he should drop his attitude if he wanted to talk business. The motherfucker freaked and bolted, only he forgot to bring the chick he had with him along. He abandoned her at a fuckin' Italian restaurant in Century City. Fuck, she was wasted on China White, a total fuckin' zombie. We fed her some coffee and she straightened up. Upshot with her was now she's a fuckin' Inana girl, and fuck her old studio. The dumb motherfucker started talking a whole lot of shit over the phone, saying he was gonna kidnap this little chick and Becky, too. I was on guard, but friends of Angel's disposed of the stupid fuck. The stereotypes of Italian gangsters you read about? That's what these dudes were really like. Shit, I just need to keep my eyes peeled for aggressive Becky Page fans, not sociopaths like this motherfucker was."
"So is he in jail now?" asked Gerald.
Terry gave a sadistic grin. "Nope. I bet he wished he had gone, though. He was fuckin' around with dudes with certified mafia connections. They carted him off so they could all have, um, a little chat. I doubt they would kill him, he was just some chump with a big mouth. But I'll bet the time they had him really sucked. These dudes would systematically beat the shit out of him, without actually causing permanent damage. They'd probably let him rest for a bit, then do it again. Lesson learned? Never fuck with people you don't know. Good manners are the only fuckin' manners. And never fuck with the mafia."
"The mafia?" queried Gerald. "How did you come to know them?"
"My boss Lenny is an associate, and his boss, the dude that owns the studio, is a capo. Angel is a cool guy. Really, the mafia is like.... Um, it's a fuckin' business thing, but it's also a fraternal thing. They all stick together, and they know they can trust each other. Lenny always says normal fuckin' people don't really need to fear the mafia, 'cos it's highly unlikely their paths will ever cross. He says that you can only get the fuckin' mafia on your ass if you try to rip them off or jerk them around. Okay, they're supposedly a fuckin' criminal organization. Shit, they're businessmen, it's just that a lot of their businesses are illegal. But they still run them honest, you know?"
"Are you saying you work for the mafia?"
Terry chuckled. "Naw. I work for Lenny and Becky, and I work for Inana. Lenny is the least fuckin' likely mafia dude you'll ever meet, he's a twenty-three year old punk rocker. Lenny is one righteous dude, he's helped me out a lot. And Inana Productions may be owned by a mafia member, but it's not really a mafia business. Everything is totally legitimate. No money laundering, no warehousing drugs, no prostitution, no front of any kind. It's all casual."
Eyebrows up, Gerald asked, "Aren't you worried about being associated with people like that?"
"But I'm not associated with them, not like how you mean. Me and Lenny are tight, we're friends, but he wouldn't go dragging me into any bullshit the mafia has. With both Lenny and Inana, hey, I'm just a fuckin' employee, I just work there. I mind my own business, so everything's cool. Like, I know that if I needed some sort of favor, I could ask Lenny, or I could ask the mafia. I'll ask fuckin' Lenny, no way do I want to get tied up with the fuckin' family, no matter how dire of straits I was in. C'mon, lemme buy you a fuckin' coffee."
The two went inside and signed in to compete. The Gun Range's big sales area/lounge area/coffee bar was somewhat full, people standing around and talking. Terry ordered two lattes from the barista, then turned around to see who was there. She spotted Peggy, the only other female competitor, and waved. Peggy waved back and continued talking to another guy.
Terry looked a little crestfallen. She said to Gerald, "It kinda sucks. Peggy and me are the only two chicks who compete, and I'd like to hang around with her, but I also know I sorta scare the shit outta her. She's a fuckin' suburban housewife and mother, she don't wanna hang around with biker bitches."
Gerald said, "You could change your appearance some, you could dress different...."
Terry pondered this and said, "Yeah.... But I also gotta stay true to who I am. I mean, I have nice clothes, and I wear them when it's appropriate, but I been a biker bitch since I was fuckin' thirteen. At least these days I don't think of myself as being 'just' a biker bitch. Being around Lenny has given me a lot of self-esteem, he's always encouraging to me. Lenny made me stop thinking of myself as a loser, that I am worth something, you know? Yeah, I'm a fuckin' outlaw, and I always will be, it's just who I am. But that doesn't mean I have to be a fuck-up. I can be an outlaw biker bitch and still do shit with my life."
"What do you want to do with your life?" asked Gerald.
"Oh boy. That's the thing, I'm not really sure. But I know I can do more than just party with outlaws and always be late with my rent, I can set goals for myself. I just don't know what goals I want yet. But I'm already doing better than I used to. I mean, I have a hobby now, target shooting. It ain't a fuckin' cheap hobby, but I got the money to do it, so.... Yeah, these days I got a hobby, I got my own putt, my fuckin' bills are paid, I got friends, real friends, to hang out with. I get up in the morning and actually look forward to the day, because I have things to do, more important shit than hanging around with outlaw trash and getting loaded. For the first time in my life, I feel like I actually have some fuckin' options, you know?"
Rubbing his chin, Gerald said, "Well.... You love shooting, right? I mean, you're still a novice shooter, but you come here every Wednesday and compete against twenty other people, all of whom have been shooting for years, and you've almost always placed. Why not enter some regional target competitions? You have the skills. There's competitions all over Southern California, sponsored by the manufacturers, offering good prize money and trophies. Who knows, you start bringing home wins at those shoot-outs, you could even get a sponsorship, and turn pro. Then you wouldn't have to work at a porn studio doing, you know, what you do...."
Terry grinned and said, "Maybe. I dunno, fluffing is great money for easy work, it's hard for me to turn that down."
"So do, uh.... You have to spend all day naked?" stammered Gerald, getting a bit pink.
"Oh, shit no," Terry laughed. "I don't even untie my boots. I mean, I'm suckin' dick, and my fuckin' mouth works just fine while I have clothes on. Yeah, I show up for work looking like I do now, and that's totally fine, I don't need to get naked for anybody. Shit, my job exists because all the dudes in porn are totally blasé about seeing naked chicks, they could care less if I had clothes on or not."
Turning a bit pinker, Gerald said, "You have to admit, um, it's an unusual job. It doesn't bother you?"
"Nope. Look, things are real fuckin' objective on a porn set, performers are really kinda detached from what they're doing with their bodies. It's just a fuckin' job. All I'm doing is causing a physical stimulus to happen in the guys, that's all. They're not getting off on it, I'm not getting off on it. I'm just using a tried and true method of giving a man an erection. Once I'm done, he takes his erection and goes to work with it. I sorta feel sorry for porn dudes, they're so used to seeing hot naked women it doesn't phase them. Okay, I'm gonna be a bit of an egotist. If I got naked for you, you'd enjoy seeing me naked, right? You'd get a thrill, you'd get turned on. Fuckin' porn studs have permanently lost that pleasure. Not only do they see naked women all the time, they see women with awesome, nearly flawless bodies. I've always wondered if they have trouble getting going when they get laid, like taking some chick home from a bar. The chick expects to get a reaction from a dude when she takes her clothes off for him. But now she's naked for this dude, and he's looking at her with all the interest of watching C-SPAN. Working in the industry can kinda fuck up having a normal sex life."
Gerald nodded and said with a shy smile, "I'll guess people who work in porn don't look at a lot of porn."
Terry started laughing. She said, "Aw shit! Porn is like hot dogs! If you like either one, never watch them being made! Haw!"
Both of them laughed. When they stopped, Gerald screwed up his courage and asked Terry, "So.... I understand what you do at your studio. Um.... Have you ever been in front of the cameras?"
"Naw. You gotta be a seriously talented fuckin' actress to perform for Inana." She paused and gave a sly smile. "Gerald, were you hoping to find a video with me in it?"
Gerald immediately turned as red as a stop sign. "Oh! Uh.... Um, I was just, you know, sort of wondering, uh...."
Terry put a hand on Gerald's shoulder, smiled, and said quietly, "Did I plant an idea? Do you want to see me naked, dude?"
He stared at Terry, wide-eyed, his mouth slightly open. He couldn't get words to come out. Terry turned her head, eyes darting around the room. Then she turned back, grabbed Gerald's neck, and drew him to her. She brought her lips to his and got her tongue in his mouth. He momentarily froze in shock, then responded. They remained like that for several seconds, then broke off.
Terry said, "Hey, you know how we always go to Dirty Dan's for beers after a shoot-out? Tonight, let's just grab a six-pack and head to my place, I live in Ocean Beach. Is that cool?"
Gathering every fiber of control in his body, Gerald forced himself to say in a calm voice, "Yeah, that's cool."
A call came over the PA for competitors to come forward and get their lane assignments. Terry looked down, snickered, and said, "Let's wait a minute before going up, you need to."
With a smirk, Terry pointed at Gerald's crotch and said, "People might see you and think you're carrying concealed, but don't understand how to wear a hip holster."
Gerald turned red again and said, "Oh God, shit, I'm sorry...."
Terry gave him a look of amusement and surprise. "Sorry for what? I'm very flattered I can get a reaction like that out of a dude. Especially a cool one."
In his chest, Gerald's heart suddenly filled with a joy he'd never known. He thought to himself, She thinks I'm cool. Oh my God, she thinks I'm cool. This totally amazing woman thinks I'm cool.
They waited briefly for things to die down for Gerald, drinking their lattes. Gerald found his voice again and said, "I have to admit, I'm surprised you don't have a boyfriend."
Terry rolled her eyes and said, "Shit. I been dating fuckin' outlaws my entire life. I'm sick of outlaws. I'm tired of the mentality, of the attitude, of all the general bullshit. But I understand how outlaws think, so that's who I've always been with. No, Terry fuckin' Patton ain't dating no more goddamn fuckin' biker trash, she's fed up with 'em."
"Yeah, it's been like nine months since I've gotten together with a dude. I think I've been sick of dating bikers for a while, but.... It's, like, my social tribe, you know? I don't know how to act around people outside of my tribe. So, hook up with another fuckin' putt monkey, play the same games for a while, and split up. There is exactly one outlaw I consider dateable at this point. You've met him, he's an Angel named Fatso, he was the skinny one with the mustache. But Fatso and his old lady have been together for fuckin' years, and he's in his forties. Fatso is one of very few outlaws I've ever known who is willing and capable of thinking about shit. He thinks, then acts. And he's helluv smart, too. But he's taken, and he's out of my age range, so fuck it."
"What about the men you work with?" asked Gerald. "You said that kind of work makes your romantic life difficult. If you dated a man who did that work, you wouldn't have to explain your jobs to each other, at least."
"Oh yeah. People in porn tend to date each other. But there's a couple problems with that for me. First, I'm pretty sure every dude at Inana is attached, to so.me degree. Also, except for two of them, they're all thick as shit. Nice guys, but dumber than a sock full of rocks. Besides, I'd run into the same problem I'd run into anywhere else, which is, who wants to date the scary biker bitch? Most of the studs at Inana have girlfriends who like going to the beach and going shopping and drive convertible Volkswagons.and spend big money on getting their fuckin' nails done. Like I said before, it's a different tribe, and I don't know how to communicate with that tribe. Let's go get our assignments."
Terry and Gerald were assigned lanes spaced ten away. They had twenty minutes to warm up. Terry did her usual routine: ten minutes with the Colt 1911, then ten minutes with the Target 87. Using the Colt had given her fantastic wrist strength, her accuracy with it was great, and handling the target .22 afterwards felt light and easy. Her little regimen put off other competitors, though. They worked with their own light target pistols exclusively. Everyone else's guns, all .22s, made a light cracking noise when fired. Terry would stand in her lane and blaze away with the Colt, the .45 caliber ammo making a loud sharp boom with every shot. Everyone knew that if they needed to find which lane Terry was on, they only had to listen for the noise.
Once warm-up was over, competitors sat down at their load tables, filling clips. Terry looked over and saw she was sitting next to Peggy. "Hey girl, how's it going?"
Peggy responded, "Oh, hello, uh, Terry. How are you tonight? Did your ride your motorcycle?"
"Naw," Terry answered. "I'm getting a bunch of custom work done on it right now, the fuckin' thing is in pieces. But is gonna look fuckin' sharp when it's done. I'm driving the Nova."
Peggy didn't know cars. "The.... Nova?"
"Yeah, it's the purple hot rod with the blower sticking out of the hood. It ain't as fast as it looks, but it's all right."
"Oh, so you are the one who drives that thing. I've often wondered. Do you get many tickets?"
Terry frowned, then nodded in understanding. "No, I've never been pulled over in it yet. Okay, cops are gonna pay attention to a fuckin' bomb like that, but I drive mellow. You gotta do something wrong for them to pull you over, so I don't give them no reason. So what do you drive?"
"A Plymouth station wagon. It's just a car, it carries children and groceries," answered Peggy.
"How many kids you got?"
"Two, a boy and a girl, seven and nine, respectively. Do you have children?"
"Shit no," Terry laughed. "I've never been married, I'm smart enough to keep from getting knocked up, and uh, well, how I live wouldn't work well with having a kid."
"Do you plan on having children?" Peggy asked.
"Maybe? I dunno. I don't want to do the single parent thing, I would want a husband, but I ain't met the right dude yet. I spend too much time around fuckin' outlaws, scooter trash aren't very nurturing, you know?"
Peggy paused and said, "I've heard a rumor you are friends with Hell's Angels."
Terry shrugged and said, "Yeah, I get along with the Dago chapter pretty well. Me and a friend will go down to their bar in National City sometimes. My friend likes it there, she's a celebrity, and we can go there without her getting bugged for autographs and shit."
"Who is your friend?"
"Becky Page. The porn star. She's also been in People, Time, Cosmopolitan, Newsweek...."
With a rather cool look, Peggy said, "Yes, I know who Becky Page is. My own husband is rather.... enamored of her. To be honest, the level of popularity she has is a scandal. A woman who does what she does should not be influencing fashion among young girls. And you're her friend?"
Terry smiled patiently and said, "Friend and employee, actually. I'm her bodyguard. I know people around here have wondered about my shoulder holster. Becky is the reason why I wear it, I wanna make sure I can protect her, no matter what."
"Does she really need a bodyguard, or is it ego?" asked Peggy.
"Oh boy. Some of her fans are fuckin' nuts. They're really obsessed with her, they think she has all the answers in life or something. Some of them will try to get a bit too close, or act sick and creepy, so me or her husband have to run them off. She's happy signing autographs, but she has dudes coming up to her at the mall or on the street and begging her to run away with them, right then and there. It's crazy. So how big of a fan is your husband.?"
A very chilly look. "He has every single one of her movies. He has her posters, eight at last count. He spent $80 to buy the issue of Penthouse she was in, Pet of the Month or whatever it's called. I insist he wait until well after the children are asleep before watching those videos, but I'm still worried one may wander into the living room late some night and see what's on the TV and see what their father is doing.... Because of Becky Page, my husband would rather sit in his recliner and masturbate than have sex with his own wife. I don't care much for your friend, not at all. She's somehow entranced my husband."
Terry reached over and put her hand on Peggy's arm. She said. "Fuck. I'm sorry, Peggy. Yeah, Becky is aware she can have that effect on some guys, and she doesn't like it. I've actually heard her tell dudes, 'Hey man, you gotta get over it. I'm just some chick who makes dirty movies, don't obsess over me.' Um, this ain't my place to say anything, but I can tell you what her advice to you and your husband would be, which is to see a fuckin' marriage counselor. What your husband is doing isn't healthy, mentally. The two of you have gotta figure out why he 's so fuckin' worked up over some chick he's never met, and has only seen in porn. He's gotta check himself, big time. Tell him, dude, I miss you, but these days all you want to do is jack it while watching the same fuck flicks over and over. We gotta talk to somebody."
Peggy sat there with her mouth slightly open, staring at Terry. She finally said, "So, there are other men in the world who are behaving like my husband, and they're all obsessed with Becky Page?"
"Aw, shit yeah. Becky fuckin' hates it. She doesn't want to be worshiped, and she doesn't want her fans fucking up their marriages or relationships over her. It really bums her out, I've seen her cry after meeting one of these psycho fans. But yeah, there's a shit-ton of dudes in this world who have stopped being fans of Becky Page and become supplicants of Becky Page.
"To be honest, Peggy? When Becky and I are out, one of the types of people I'm watching for is angry wives. Becky gets some fuckin' scary-ass mail from these women, and she was nearly stabbed at the UTC mall by one. And the thing is, Becky doesn't have a fuckin' clue as to how or why all these dudes get so obsessed over her. It sure as shit ain't anything she planned. Okay, she's a good actress, she's got an awesome body, and her sex scenes are great.... But you can say that of any of the chicks at her studio. Somehow, Becky's videos completely captivate a lot of people, to the point of mental illness. But don't ask Becky how she did it, because she doesn't have a fuckin' clue."
Peggy fiddled aimlessly with the loaded clips on the table. "Marriage counseling. Lord. I always thought that was for wife-beaters and alcoholics."
"Hey, counseling is for anyone who's having trouble, you know?" replied Terry. She looked at the ceiling, then said, "I just had an idea. What would your husband's reaction be if he met Becky Page?"
"Fawning, slavering attention, no doubt. He'd be as pathetic as a thirteen year old girl meeting a pop idol."
"But he'd hang on her every word, wouldn't he?"
Peggy frowned. "I suppose...."
With a grin, Terry said, "So suppose your husband met Becky Page, and she told him, 'Dude, I heard how you spend your evenings. I heard about all the posters. Cut it the fuck out, stop acting like I'm a Christ figure, and jacking off is your form of prayer. I'm just a woman, stop obsessing over me, pay attention to the chick you're married to instead, she loves you. I don't want fans who act like you, you think you're in love with a fuckin' two-dimensional image on a screen. You need some therapyw.' His mind would be blown, but I'll bet he'd listen. What do you think?"
"And under what circumstances would my husband meet Becky Page under?" asked Peggy.
"I'll call in a favor from Becky. Her and me could just go to your house some evening. Yeah, your husband will flip his shit when he sees Becky Page standing at the door, but she can explain that because she does care about her fans, she wants them to be mentally healthy, and how he's acting isn't, it's sick. She'll tell him he's gotta get over her and get on with his life, which includes paying attention to his wife. Becky would go for this, she'd feel like she was actually helping someone, being able to stop a train wreck from happening in someone's marriage. God knows there's plenty of people out there who think she causes them."
Peggy stared blankly at the load table. "This.... is interesting. According to you, Becky Page is bothered by the overzealous fandom of some men, she thinks it's terrible. Truth be told? I'd pictured Becky Page as a devil reveling in the misery she'd caused. I know the sorts of lives porn people lead, I'd assumed her life was a mess. Is it?"
"Hell no," Terry responded. "She's happy at work, her and her husband are tight, they live on the beach in Encinitas in a custom house, and they've probably made enough fuckin' money at this point that they could stop working tomorrow and be comfortable for the rest of their lives. Becky doesn't party it up all the time, most nights she wants to be at home with Lenny, petting the cat and watching TV. She really, truly is good people."
An announcement came over the PA, competition was about to start. Peggy said, "Before you leave tonight, give me your phone number. I'd like to talk to you more. Is that all right?"
"Hey, works for me, girlfriend," smiled Terry.
Terry scored three centuries in competition, scores a professional only prays to get. She took first place, collecting $250 for her efforts. Everyone shook her hand, and stared at her targets. Going through a ten-round clip, hitting the bull's eye every time, and doing that three times in an evening. She had the same conversation over and over....
"So where did you start shooting?"
"Here at the Gun Range."
"How many years have you worked at target shooting?"
"Uh.... About four months now. I'm still a novice, really, I'm new to the sport."
"Nope. My boss wanted me to learn how to shoot, so he taught me how to handle his Beretta 92, and was amazed at the scores I was getting at fifteen yards. He suggested I take up target shooting as a hobby, so I did, bought my Target 87, use my big Colt for training, and here I am."
"You'd never used a gun until four months ago? How did you get so good?"
"Shit dude, I dunno. I just try to hit the fuckin' center of the target is all, you know? My boss calls me a dead-eye."
"Uh.... What does it say on your t-shirt?"
"Oh, that's GG Allin. It says, 'Drink, Fight, and Fuck.'"
"Uh.... Huh. Well, congratulations, you have a good night."