I wake up strapped to a metal chair in a dark concrete room. My head pounds, my mouth is dry, and across from me sits DJ Shipley, smiling.
“Good, you’re awake.”
I start struggling against the restraints. “Release me, I DON’T KNOW YOOR PRATISCORE, get me out of here.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
He picks up a Mk.18 with a Hydra Mount. “No…” I whisper, watching the stock rise higher and higher until it’s practically touching his collarbone.
I start screaming. “DJ NO! YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS!”
The buff medium shirt wearing guards pin my shoulders down as DJ slowly shoulders the rifle. “Observe proper technique.”
DJ places the base point of his Magpul CTR to high on his shoulder
I let out a cry that can only be described as primal. “No, Not like that!
He ignores me. The guards laugh. One throws up from witnessing the stock placement. Another crosses himself. DJ sets the rifle down and I think the nightmare is over.
It isn’t.
He picks up a pistol with a red dot. I close my eyes and beg. He looks directly into them, then into my soul, and says: “When using a red dot, simply focus on the dot.”
I begin convulsing. “You focus on the TARGET! THE TARGET DJ! THE TARGET!”
He leans in. “I can’t hear you.”
For days the torture continues improper stock placement, HYDRA discussions, not a single mention of a shot timer. Every morning I wake up hoping it was a dream. Every morning DJ walks back in and subjects me to such barbarity.
Eventually I notice the guards have stopped watching me. They’re too busy arguing amongst themselves about whose setup is more optimized, neither realizing they’ve been having the same conversation for six straight hours. I spot my chance and slip free. Nobody notices.
I grab my BCM 12.5 inch, with Arisaka light mount to a Streamlight WML, Aimpoint T2 without magnifier & GIZMØ GLÏDÈR sling. I know most gun battles happen under 50 yards so this set up is optimized, I then sprint through the facility as alarms blare. Behind me: “HE’S ESCAPING! STOP HIM!” then, a beat later “TARGET IS NOT RUNNING A HYDRA MOUNT, BE ADVISED”
Fools, don’t they know the standard optic height is the best one? I burst through the front doors.
Outside, America has changed. Everyone’s a gay liberal. GBRS was part of the elite propaganda group to make everyone’s shooting technique slightly wrong. Gun culture eroded, nobody knows how to properly see a buttock. Red-dot acquisition is slightly slower. Over the generations, Split times were in shambles, practiscore’s nonexistent. Men were weak and the global homo agenda took advantage of it. This was now a conquered nation.
I dropped to my knees. My scream echoed across the once glorious republic. Why am I here, just to suffer? As I sunk into my own black pill, as I lost all hope, I heard a voice from behind me “you’re gonna give up that easily? I don’t think you’re cut out for my class.” I looked over my shoulder, noticed, who stood before me…
Ben?
-Fin-