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I AM THE BULLET...
BY LOUIS AWERBUCK
Reprinted With Permission of S.W.A.T.
Magazine, Copyright 2005.
As seen in S.W.A.T. DECEMBER 2004 - Page 98
www.swatmag.com
I am the bullet — and I have no
conscience. You will treat me with respect because once I leave, you have no control
over my actions. Once I’m gone I will do as I please, governed only by the laws
of physics. And the next time you see me I will have done my work, bringing on
your life a potential gamut of emotions ranging from pleasure, satisfaction and
exhilaration to anger, pain, grief and regret. Use me wisely and with
discretion, for I can snuff out the flame of a king’s life as easily as I can
bring delight to a ten-year-old’s face by recording for posterity a first bullseye
on a humble paper target.
It took the fire of a crucible to
conceive me, but now I’m no longer molten metal — and therein lies the deceptiveness
of my power. When I was cast in the mould of hot lead you knew I was dangerous,
but now you underestimate me as I lie in the womb of the cartridge case, a
solidified metal teardrop the size of your fingernail. Beware, for the day I’m
born I will go from womb to tomb in the fraction of a second. For me there will
be no childhood, no puberty, no adulthood — just a nano-second of flight before
I find my terminal resting place.
You must be mother, father, teacher, and
priest, because you will guide me on my short life’s path. I am but an emotionless,
inanimate object with no heartbeat and no conscience. Once the hot gases of propulsion
give birth to my destination, they will also signal my death knell, for I will
have no childhood, no puberty, no adulthood. Instant birth to instant rest, with
but a momentary tick of the clock of time to bring pleasure or pain. The
responsibility for my actions rests squarely on your shoulders. You conceived me,
you entombed me in a cartridge case with my brother primer and sister gunpowder,
slaves to your bidding. If you didn’t cast, size, lube and load me yourself,
you bought me just like you bought Mister Gump’s box of chocolates. But unlike
the box of chocolates, with me what you see is what you get. I am the corked
bottle encasing a quiescent genie. Once the genie is free, you know exactly what
potential can be unleashed — but you had better choose your three wishes
wisely.
The acquisition of firearms and ammunitions
is sequential, one way or the other. Rarely does one initially have a vast
supply of ammo of a specific caliber and subsequently acquire a firearm to use or
expend this supply. While people often buy a secondary or tertiary weapon for
this reason, usually one purchases the gun, cleaning equipment, accessories,
and a storage unit — be it a case, bag or gun safe — before any thought is
given to what ammunition is going to be obtained and used in the weapon. And
after spending a king’s ransom on all this equipment, you head for the local gun
emporium and spend a pittance on a case of the cheapest garbage military surplus
ammo you can find.
Then when you miss, you blame it on me.
When you accidentally discharge a firearm because you neglected to extract me
from the chamber, you blame it on me. When I plow my way through bone and
muscle, and fail to incapacitate a madman, you blame it on me. But when you achieve the result you wanted,
then it’s because of your masterful ability, and I’m forgotten — used,
expended, and spent.
Such is my lot — Man’s ingratitude and
lack of respect for the humble bullet. Because you paid for the ammunition, I become
your possession; but you don’t own me — I own your soul. I will make you or
break you in my short lifespan. The slightest marksmanship error on your part
and I will embarrass you in front of your peers. The slightest lapse in concentration
while manipulating a firearm and I will take an innocent life. I will ricochet
off a windshield, a belt buckle, or a baseball cap bill when you’ve been told I
should have penetrated the material — and I will just as easily over-penetrate an
apartment wall and forever snuff out the future of a defenseless child.
Doctor Mann spent a lifetime trying to
find out why I didn’t always perform as external ballistics would demand I do —
and he went to his grave with my secret intact. But you insist on imbibing alcohol and firing bullets into the
air in a puerile Yuletide celebration, understanding nothing of the physics of
my flight path — or my power to change your life forever.
You will spend endless hours
discussing the merits and demerits of my size and velocity, but when all is
said and done, it really doesn’t mean anything. The truth of the matter is that
once I depart from your gun muzzle you no longer
have control over me — and I, too, no longer have control over my own destiny.
The next time you see a humble un-fired
bullet remember that without me your gun is as useless as fingers on a rooster.
And once loaded, I can be as dangerous as a drunk in rush hour traffic. Once my
power is unleashed, there can be only two results — delight and satisfaction,
or disaster and horror. And this will reach fruition in the blink of an eye, for
I have no childhood, no puberty, no adulthood.
Treat me with respect, for I am the
bullet — and I have no conscience.
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Stay Aware, Stay Safe, and Train Hard.
