SECONDS FOR EVERYONE

SECONDS FOR EVERYONE' BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT “There should be no restrictions at all on who can buy guns,” said Colt Bonehead Oozy, The Head of The Nut Case Rebellious Anarchists on TV. after the latest shooting. “Everyone should have the right to buy a gun. The Second Amendment does not say “except children, except the mentally ill or except those with criminal backgrounds” it says “The Right of The People To Keep And Bare Arms Shall Not Be Infringed” Period. Therefore, all such restrictions should be done away with.” “At least,” I cried. “I can get a gun.” I'd spent the better part of my fifteen years in Juvenile Detention, mostly due to my schizophrenia and Multiple Personalities, Freddie, in particular, was quite violent, but I still ought to be able to target shoot if I want to. “Not so fast, Norman,”said my ,mother. “His opinion does not make it policy.” She was technically right, of course, but since both The Executive and The Legislative Branches of The Federal Government were firmly in the control of Republicans, and everyone knew that the top People of The Republican Party all but slept with Colt Oozy, I knew it was only a matter of time. To my parents horror, I was right. “Don't worry,” I told my parents as we watched President Fire Arm Gun Brain sign The Restoration of The Second Amendment Bill into law. “I won't shoot you.” “You won't, Norman,” said my father. “But what about Freddie. And what about people you don't like.” “I'll just use it for target shooting, I promise,” I said. “And only I will handle it. When I feel someone else, particularly Freddie, coming, I'll empty it and lock it up.” I don't think they believed me, but as I had been saving my money for years and there was a gun store a block away, there was nothing they could do. “I'd like a '38 Special, please,,” I said, walking up to the desk. “That's expensive, kid,” said the clerk. “You look a bit young to write a check, and I don't see any parents with you, so. . .” I pulled out my wallet. “Will five hundred cash do?” I asked, handing him five crisp one-hundred dollar bills. “They're real, you can check,” I said, sensing his next objection. “I've been saving for ten years.” Five minutes later I was headed for the door with my new gun. “So,” said a mocking voice I knew and hated all too well. “Retard Boy has a gun now?” I felt Freddie starting to come up, and fought to keep him down. “Yes, Charlton Wayne, and unless you want to have worse mental health than me, I suggest you keep your big mouth shut.” He starts to laugh, which is the one thing that I was really hoping he would not do. “Nobody laughs at Norman,,” I now Freddie say in my own voice, causing everyone else to back away. Before Wayne Charlton can respond, I load my new gun, put it right to his chest, look right into his wide and frightened and tear filled eyes, smile, and pull the trigger. Then I leave and Norman walks home and shoots himself in the head, not wanting to go to jail, and so we all eleven die.