Rattler

We called it a Rattler, a firearm of sorts, not unlike a rifle, ‘cept, it ain’t had no traditional stock, but rather a kind of bubbled one which fit nicely in the crook of the armpit.  It had no kick back which was good, ‘cause, sure enough, if it did, once you’ld pull the trigger, the whole darn thing would likely slip through your pit on behind you.  It got its name from the noise emittin’ from that bubble hugged up under the arm, like the sound of the snake with the same name, deadly, or like a perhaps like a baby’s rattle whose shape the stock took. 

The science behind its functionin’ was lost on most of us who used the the thing.  For years, we’d been used to a firearm you’d had to load with bullets, and which had a hammer to cock on the top of the gun.  We’d been used to the kind of firearm which pushed back on you when you pulled the trigger, which if you weren’t firm enough with, would reach up and slap you in the head, or perhaps pound you on the chest.  Those were manly guns, strong and deadly lookin’.

A Rattler on the other hand looked ridiculous, with its bubble stock, its quiet shaking of whatever was bumpin’ around in the stock.  And I remember laughin’ at Chuck when he brought one out when we had gone huntin’ a few years back.  He told he had bought one at a gun show, which was where you only could get your hands on one.  I hadn’t seen the thing before, only had heard of it, heard of its accuracy and effectiveness.  Apparently, it had been military issued for years, only secret, so that them Iranis, Ruskies, and Commies wouldn’t get their hands on one.

It was late November.  I remember there was a mixture of hot and cool winds which blew together when I drove out to the huntin’ site.  Chuck had already arrived, his dented truck parked at the end of dirt road.  Chick was standin' by the tailgate fiddlin' with some his gear.  Now, while I dabble in huntin' specifically with an  an old rifle I inherited from my Pa after he up and died, Chuck was huntsmen always talkin' about some new doodad he picked up at the Saxet gun show.  I knew hid probably would be showin' off somethin' tonight.

Although the sun was still out, it was fallin' fast, and the headlights from my pickup was the on ty thin' lightin' his hunched back and thin face. 

"Chuck."  I grabbed my sleepin' gear from the back of my truck. 

"Best be gettin' to the site, Lemmy," h. says to me. 

Just so you know, my real name ain't Lemmy.  It's just a name friends had givin' me on account as I look a little like Lemmy from Moturhead, want an' all. 

I watched as he grabbed his gear includin' a large metal box with a plastic handle…