Dear Mr. Red Flag Enforcer/Gun Grabber

I don't talk a lot about guns, or gun control, here (97/2602 posts = 3.7%), because there are a lot of other blogs that do that , and do it better, with more expertise and precision, and have done so for longer than we've been blogging. That's fine with me. I've only got enough interests to keep me busy for three or four lifetimes as it is, most days. It comes up sometimes, and I'll get into it for a bit, but it's not all I'm interested in. But apparently, because I'm not in the tank for every bit of raging jackassery vaguely related to the 2A that comes down the pike, I have defaulted and fallen short of the mark in my 2A-loving credentials.

This, even though, IMHO, given that Lexington and Concord were over cannon as much as muskets and powder, I think at a minimum, the 2A protects us to own crew-served weaponry without any reservation whatsoever, and probably, if we're intellectually honest about it, anything in the DoD inventory, 1775-five seconds ago. Yes, anything. "If I can't be trusted with it, neither can you. And vice versa." The "letters of marque and reprisal" clause in Article I, Section 8 of the U.S. Constitution took it for granted that anyone with a ship should be able to purchase, mount, and use naval weaponry. (Tell me, by the by, what Somalian piracy would amount to - besides shark chum - if Carnival Cruise Lines and Maersk Shipping had CIWS aboard, mounted four-to-a-ship? Or a couple of 5-inch DP guns? Beuller? Ferris Beuller...?)

But specifically, I'm apparently too soft on 2A rights for some jackholes, because I refuse to brook the stupidity and futility that was Gun Woodstock in Richmond last January. So be it.
You want to do stupid things, be prepared to win stupid prizes. But don't expect me to join your parade, nor cheer it from the sidelines. It is a modern-day Children's Crusade, except not as well thought out as the original, and you deserve all of what comes afterwards. Enjoy your new anti-gun laws in response. Maybe you should hold another rally...?

I point it out for the historically inclined to elucidate all the marches and sit-ins the colonists did at the MA governor's mansion in 1775 to secure their right to be armed, by way of counter-example.

I'll be over here, waiting for that forthcoming report.

And I remind you that in many places, as I've already long since told you, there are much smarter and more effective things to be doing than futile Gun Woodstocks.

In the meantime, there remains the question of what to do when the Minions of Evil decide that "just following orders" has trumped "preserve and defend the Constitution of the United States", because having their daily bread and butter made that second bit optional.

I repeat, for the record, my answer is

Shoot the motherfuckers in the face.

 

I wanted that enlarged and bolded, lest there be any confusion.

That's my default answer, so long as I retain the physical and mental capability to do so.

 

And then, go after those who sent them. Continue until you run out of targets, or ammo.

Or life's breath.

 

Should they go about their mission with more wit than with Randy Weaver or David Koresh, and get the drop on me a la John Dillinger, if given the option to fight it out in court, I'll do what I must in that venue.

 

But unless I see 47 muzzles already in my face, and I have no other options in resisting an unconstitutional assault on my person, I'll do what I can.

 

Because I know, from history itself, and 100,000,000 corpses last century alone, that when the government disarms its people, what follows is never very good for them, and I prefer to take my chances with my boots on.

 

Because I'd rather do that than face Solzhenitsyn's Lament, every day in some prison sh*thole or Amerikan gulag.

 

It will be a Last Resort. I'll hate that it's necessary. I won't like it.

But I'll do it. No fear. No hesitation. No regrets.

 

It cuts against the grain. Because when they're enforcing just laws in a just manner, the police are doing Good. I am neither a copsucker nor a knee-jerk cop-hater, and my record in calling out the douchebadges when they royally screw the pooch is beyond reproach. But there's still quite a lot of them doing God's work all the time. (In Chicongo, not so much. But I digress.) If I were a bank robber, a rapist, or a murderer, caught red-handed, that would include shooting me in the face.

 

But when the only alleged "crime" is that some shrieking nancypants got the hebejeebees because I own a gun (or ten, or fifty, or whatever I'm up to these days), and anyone - president, congress weasels, governor, district attorney, hysterical mother, or some black-robed fuckwit too stupid to get into a STEM program - thinks that gives them the a priori right to circumvent Natural Law, the Constitution, and due process in one fell swoop, and send Officer Jackboots And His Merry Men to come take them, without any bill of indictment, witnesses, defense, or any other shred of due process in common law going back to Magna Carta, you'd better send your minions in their serious Kevlar underpants, with their insurance paid up and their wills up to date, and leave the married men at home. Because at that point, the range is now hot in both directions, I shoot Expert, and that red range flag means "No quarter given, nor expected."

 

Maestro, cue up the Deguello.

 

 

You won't be swooping in and taking my guns today, and then getting donuts afterwards. But I'll play that music for you before we die. On an endless loop.

 

You may get to take the property of my estate after you kill me, but I'll do my damnedest to take a lot of you and your fellow jackbooted motherfuckers with me. Because at that point, that's all you are.

 

Don't worry about talking me out. Ain't gonna happen.

 

If I only manage to wound a couple in the first attempt, don't worry about falling back, and asking me for a minute or three to collect your wounded. I'll shoot the sumbitches in the head, to save you the trouble. Then we can pick up where you left off.

 

And if I manage to get away afterwards, I'll hunt you down, to the last man. I'll consider your families and homes fair game. If I catch you eating a sandwich or taking a crap, same-same. And everybody you work with. Ditto for your boss, your boss's boss, and his boss's boss. And their families, and their homes. There will be no such thing as collateral damage, and no innocent bystanders. Because when you come to my door, that's how you decided to call the tune.

 

Sauce for this goose is good for you ganders as well. Until I run out of ammo, targets, or life's breath. Hand to God on that.

 

Once you break the social contract, the divorce is permanent as far as it concerns me. There will be no reconciliation possible, nor wanted. You'll be dead to me, until I can make you so.

 

But I'm not going there lightly. You can back off anytime. (Before you ever start would be advisable.) I'm among the most law-abiding persons you'll ever meet. I try to avoiding being guilty of even parking tickets or overdue library books. And will continue to do so all the days of my life.

 

Unless you set the law aside.

 

Which is what red flag laws and gun bans are. You can follow procedure in passing them, but they're still moot, illegal, and unenforcable. As you'll find out at the threshold.

At that point, the new "No Law" rule is the only one I'll be observing, from here on out.

 

I may get one of you. Or two. Or ten. Or maybe none.

But it won't be for lack of diligent application.

And if, somehow, against your own interests, you can kill me, but hesitate, you'd better.

If I live, I won't go out crying like a bitch because you caught me, but because I didn't kill all of you. That will continue until the day I'm executed, and Hannibal Lechter has nothing on how I'll feel and act while incarcerated. Unless I'm a quadraplegic like Hasan after Ft. Hood. Depend on that. And if that, my last breath will be to spit in your face.

 

Now, go home and think about your wife and kids. Your friends, family, and hobbies. Everything you hold dear.

 

That's what you're risking for me, and for you, when you decide a paycheck trumps the Constitution.

 

Your guns are loaded, and you face that every day, when going after actual criminals.

I get that.

My guns are loaded for them, for the same reason.

 

So think long and hard about whether today is a good day to die, for treating me like a criminal, when we both know I'm not.

 

Doing that is the day you decide to become a criminal.

And you'll answer for it, both here, and hereafter.

 

The war may well end, someday, and either my side or yours will win.

 

But you won't live to see it, if I have anything to say about it.

So, do you really want to make all kinds of enemies out of the last people in the country who think what you do is something worth having?

 

Or do you want to sign up with the Sheriff of Nottingham against the people of Sherwood, for keeps, and for real?

 

This exam will be graded pass-fail, and you only get to take it one time.

 

Choose wisely.
 

Don't die like a bitch, enforcing unjust laws for corrupt elected crooks, for a paycheck.

Gun owners nationwide, with 600,000,000-1,000,000,000 weapons and 2,000,000,000,000-plus rounds of ammunition for them, and 95% of them better shooters than your best people are on their best day, are hanging on to see your decision, every day.
 

Here I stand; I can do no other.

 

That doesn't make me any kind of badass, nor is it intended to, in any way.

But I won't be a serf for so much as a second.

And I favor my odds to think there are quite a few other hardy souls out there who feel exactly the same way.

 

No better friends, no worse enemies.

 

"I'm pleading with you with tears in my eyes: if you fuck with me, I'll kill you all."

 

Bet on it. Yuuuugely.

And remember, you can't spend that paltry paycheck when you're dead.

To Ofcr. Jackboots' Bosses: You aren't the only ones who can make lists.

This isn't a rant.
It's a holy promise.

{And To Whomever It May Concern:
I hope we've answered where I fall on the Second Amendment once and for all.
Pound the too-soft-on-the-2A bilgewater right back up your tailpipe with a flat shovel.
Or if you'd like, I'll help you out with that.}


Oh, look: An "Amen!" echo at Freedom Is Just Another Word.
We're adding it.

Thumbs up, MaddMedic.