Warlock of Omaha Chapter 10 Only the Young Can Say
I had Jake come over. Brenda was working on the code at the lab. I had to make sure the guns the code was for actually worked. I had the Glock and Tavor all fabbed up, now came the hard part. Each gun was now made of lots of new parts with new weights and new balances.
I had a one hundred yard range underground at the house. I started with the Glock. I had loaded the Glock's mag with a random mix of my stage one and two. Since stage one had a lot of variety in it, that meant the Glock had to be ready for anything on short notice. I fired it for a while until it jammed. Then switched to the Tavor and did the same. Jake sat out in the hall, with high performance ear muffs I had bought for him, playing with his IPad and reloaded mags for me. He probably still didn't like being around the shooting.
I took the guns back to my shop, examined them and figured out why they failed. Which part needed to be lightened or made heavier. Which part of the gas system needed to collect more or less. If a new part needed to be fabbed, I got it set up and went to work on the other gun. I knew serious development shops could spend months and years on this kind of work.
While I worked and fabbed, Jake played with my chin up bar and went for runs around the neighborhood. I was also hungry and tired of always being hungry and a little crabby.
I got a call from Miranda around lunch time.
"Yeah?" I answered more sharply than I meant to. I was annoyed and frustrated. Then I felt bad, because Miranda didn't deserve that tone.
"There's a pan baked fried chicken in the fridge. There's a whole chicken for you and another for Jake and big bowl of mashed potatoes." She answered.
"To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your call." I replied in a much nicer tone.
"I just wanted to mention, if we're going to have four girls living in the house, we'll probably need at least one more car." She answered.
I could tell that she was trying to sound grown up and responsible, but there was an undercurrent of nervous. The simple truth is that there is a power dynamic in every relationship, and I held the lion's share in this one. That didn't mean I wanted her to feel nervous making reasonable requests. I wanted her to feel safe and valued.
"That's a really good point. I've been busy lately and I probably would have missed it. I don't know what I would do if I didn't have you helping keep an eye on things. I'll get a new car soon. I really appreciate you pointing that out." I replied.
"Oh good. That's great. I have to get back to class now. See you tonight. She answered and hung up.
Another car. Well that meant a trip to the dealership.
We knocked off at four, with some new parts ginning in the CNC machine and went for a drive.
I took Jake down to Bellevue where the Subaru dealership I liked lived. When I buy a car for someone I care about, I buy a Subaru. They have a better record for safety than any other manufacturer. The cars have AWD standard which is a necessity in a town like Omaha. The fact that they're cheap to buy, own and extremely practical doesn't hurt.
I ran us through Bronco's drive through on the way and we bought a mountain of food. We had eaten all the chicken and mash Miranda had left and by four we were already hungry, and I knew this would take a while. We got to the dealership. I parked the truck and we went inside.
You would think that at least one dealership would realize making buying a car a painful long hassle was a bad idea. I haven't found one yet. I always buy the Forester. I like the best equipped one on the lot without a turbo.
I didn't bother to test drive the one we picked out. We adjourned to the Salesman's office. I made a reasonable offer, he countered. I took out my notebook. Jake took my lead, pulled out his IPad and went back to work. Salesman went with "I'll go see what my manager can do."
They began playing the making us wait too long game because making impatient people wait is part of the ritual. Waiting makes customers willing to compromise when they shouldn't. Salesman came back with a counter offer. I shook my head.
"You can do better." I said not even looking at him.
At least I was getting work done. I had sat myself in the Salesmen's seat on one of his absences, it was more comfortable. I was working with Brenda online, reviewing what she had accomplished that day, being pleasantly surprised because it was way more than I would have expected. We exchanged work and ideas and were making real progress. Compared to the annoyingly slow progress with the guns and playing the pointlessly stupid ritual with Salesman.
They wanted to know if we would finance. I baited my trap. I used a social security number I had available with modestly bad credit to fill out the app. They came back with a crazy high interest rate. I then negotiated them hard on price letting the interest rate stand. They gave, licking their chops for the interest they thought they were going to get. We finally settled on a price within a few hundred dollars of my original offer. When they took us back to sign papers in the office, I pulled out my checkbook and paid cash. I took some pleasure in that I think I saw one of them weeping in the hallway. Still, that was three hours of my life I would never get back.
I had called Miranda around five when it became clear that I wouldn't be done by dinner.
Jake drove the Subaru and I drove my truck. We went to the Hooters in Council Bluffs. They were having an all you can eat wings deal. We intended to make them lose money on it.
We got a good table, late as it was on a weeknight. We both started with forty wing platters.
"We will indulge one beer each and then have soft drinks." I announced.
We ate a lot of wings. We ogled a lot of barmaids. I saw one of DiAngelo's guys, but he was there for the same thing as us. We gave each other wide berth and nothing came of it.
During a quiet moment I asked Jake, "How's it going with Jim?"
"Oh, really good. I got my license, a copy of my birth certificate, we ordered a passport and we opened a checking account." Jake said proudly.
"Get me the routing number and account number of that checking account. I'll start putting a little something in there. You shouldn't need to beg if you want to put some gas in your bike or take Michael out for ice cream." I said.
"Cool." He answered.
Jim had prepared a report for me about Jake. His father had been US military, killed in Iraq. Unfortunately, he and Jake's mother hadn't been married and in the absence of the father it became impossible to prove Jake's parentage, and thus no benefits. Jake's mom had gritted it out with a series of blue collar jobs, heavy on cleaning woman and waitress. Jake had always underperformed at school, likely because of the lack of parental guidance, and had dropped out completely during his second year in High School. He had since been on the fringes of illegal activity and had several misdemeanor arrests. He was a train on it's way to wrecking.
However, either somebody had done a Herculean job building a background for Jake or he was real. It's a standard precaution I take. I had reports for Kelly and Brenda too.
"What are you doing on the IPad all the time?" I asked Jake expecting to hear about something sordid or banal.
Jake smiled proudly again and pulled out the IPad. "I'm getting my GED!"
"What?" I said shocked and surprised. I had been nudging him to do something for a while. Maybe something I said had an effect? It'd be nice to think I was having some sort of positive effect on the world.
"Yeah," Jake said, his Boston accent really coming out when he was a bit bashful. "Kelly said 'You're a grown man. To be with me you have to have a GED. You have to set a good example for Michael.'"
So much for my effect. At least something seemed to be working.
"She didn't stop there. She had me get the IPad, then she showed me how to sign up for classes and do the work. I can do it anywhere there's a wifi hook-up."
"Ahh," I thought to myself. "Maybe that's part of it. Have to not just tell the horse to drink. I have to take it to water. And provide or withhold sex."
"Wow. That's really cool. I'm very impressed." I said with all sincerity. "Show me."
He showed me his work on the IPad. He was making good headway on Social Studies, English and Science, but was lagging on Math.
I looked up at Jake and said, "This is really amazing. I'm really actually very impressed and pleased. If you need any help with this, especially the Math, just come over. I'll work with you for as long as you need."
"I don't know." Jake said looking evasive. "You have so much important work to do…"
"This," I said, holding the IPad, "is more important."
Jake looked a little surprised. I suspect he hadn't had many male role models value him like this.
"Okay," Jake said, "I will."
"Good." I said. Then the wings came.
At first the waitresses were annoyed at us for ordering more than they thought we could eat. Then they were annoyed at us because of our frequent refill orders. Then they got into it. I ate very mild wings. Jake sucked down various grades of spicy like it meant nothing. Waitresses came and hung out with us, sat in our laps and otherwise made a fuss over us. It was great. I had never been treated like this. Of course, I had never hung out with a male model like Jake. We went home with t-shirts and happy memories.
I texted the girls that there was a new car. The rules would be both sets of car keys would have to be left on hooks by the garage door. The first one out in the morning would get choice of car. I expected some trouble. More clutter in the garage. My parking spaces at the universities full all the time. The girls would fight over who got to drive what despite the fact that they were both Subaru Foresters and almost identical, one blue, one red. That's the price of a Brenda I guess.
We got back to my place. I had Jake park in the garage. He got his bike and went home.
I called Miranda and asked her to my room. Gave her a good thanking.
The next day we continued on at our regular pace getting ready for my Three Gun match.
For those who don't know, a Three Gun match is a shooting contest/event/opportunity where one is expected to shoot a rifle, pistol and shotgun. The sport reflects a widely held belief in the US shooting community that to be a well rounded shooter, one must be able to shoot all three types of firearms with some skill. The event organizer sets up stages where one has to face various shooting challenges with one or more of the three firearms.
So why do I go? One can go to a shooting range, set up targets and shoot. That's good, especially if you're a beginner working on basic skills. However, firearms combat isn't about how well one can shoot a paper target. Combat is unpredictable. What weird situation will you be in and what portion of the target at what distance will you have to hit? All while under pressure. When it HAS to work right the first time.
The stages in a Three Gun match represent unique situations that a shooter must solve with his smarts, physical ability and shooting skills, all while under the clock. It's like playing chess, while doing gymnastics and taking occasional shots. Short of being in real combat, I don't know any training environment that's better. Participating in Three Gun matches is critical to my development in being able to defend myself.
Is it too dangerous? I will be leaving my home for eight to nine days. I'll be away from my best defenses, my familiar ground and my allies such as they are. The answer is, there are few places as safe as a Three Gun match. It will be filled with well armed expert shooters who believe in mutual defense. I know gun control partisans would like to paint them as gun crazy yahoos. I know the truth of what decent, honorable men and women they really are. It's a privilege to be in their company. So, if the match is safe, what about the trip back and forth? I'll be driving through at seventy-five plus miles an hour. It will be hard to figure out where I'll be and set up an ambush with satellites and helicopters. Besides I registered under a false identity. By the time my adversaries know where I am and can pull something together. I'll be home.
I had Jed come by and take my RV to a local dealership. At the dealership they would check everything. Replace anything showing wear. They would clean and polish the RV till you could eat off the septic tank floor. Then they'd make sure every kind of fluid was topped off including water and diesel. Then Jed would bring it home carefully not touching anything he didn't have to. Jed had horsed around in my RV on the way home a few years back. We had a talk. It doesn't happen anymore.
I kept working on the guns. Brenda worked on the software. Jake came by and helped. I took breaks and helped him with his math. By the third day I had the guns in hand. I had found the right balances and then fired a thousand rounds through both without a slip. Both firearms were still using the same basic mechanism as their namesakes. Both were among the most reliable/low maintenance firearms ever made by man. They just needed to be balanced out to get back to that state. I hoped.
I then went over every piece of gear with a fine tooth comb, metaphorically speaking, fixing any details and adding magic. I should point out that my ceramic cup went away. It was no longer large enough. I replaced it with an improved Type A CFRTPC cup. Much lighter, better protection, easier to clean, most importantly much more comfortable.
One thing I punted on was my axe. I have an axe. The plan for situations where I'll have to fight with the pistol is to have the axe in the other hand. The axe isn't just good for hand to hand, it's my magical focus. Like a wizard's wand. I can project a weak shield with it and some other useful tricks. I suspect that I could do more now if I put my head to it.
The problem is the axe's blade was forged in New Zealand. I had traveled to the shop down under for it's creation. I was nervous about going down there for another. They could forge it and ship it to me, but that meant finding a new handle. I looked through every piece of hickory they had in inventory before I found the right one. Where would I find a good piece of hickory? There were places I could start near Omaha, but it would take a lot of time. So, I stuck with my old axe.
As we got closer to go day, it became clear the software was just not going to be ready. We had some builds running, but they were weak, slow and prone to crashing. Brenda came up with an alternative.
"In the short run, we can lean on the Tracking Point software and do a decent build that will just run the long-range side." She proposed.
"But I need BOTH sides!" I whined with the grace of a petulant child denied a toy.
She gave me a look and I pulled myself back together.
"That's all we can have ready by go day?" I asked in a more reasonable adult tone.
"That's my educated opinion. Yes." She answered calmly.
"Okay, let's do it. We'll get the rest done when I get back." I accepted.
That might have been the only workable answer for the software, but it presented other problems and presented a basic weakness. The software really wouldn't support fast, short range shooting with a pistol. That was a problem because there was just no way to fire the pistol in an aimed way without the scope while I had the helmet on. The helmet's cameras were my 'eyes' and those cameras sat on my forehead. Holding the pistol up at an awkward angle was the best of a bad bunch of solutions.
That problem pointed out another even bigger problem. The point of the exercise was not to build the ultimate Three Gun rig, it was to help me defend myself when facing magic hitters. Some maybe better than me. I was building one of the most complex man portable technological systems on the planet. I would then be completely dependant on it. All one of those magic hitters would have to do was spark my tech and pop, all screens go black and I'm helpless. I was putting in counter-magic protection, but it was only so good. It's not like I had any high level training in how to protect technology from magic with magic. My recent humbling on enchantment magic showed just how far I had to go.
A basic tenet in the shooting community is to have back-up sights. Scopes, essentially fragile constructs of glass and tin, have been failing shooters under bad circumstances for generations. Only in the last decade have sights started to be developed with real rugged reliability. Even still, most scope mounts are now designed to be easily removed on the assumption the scope might still fail and need to be removed quickly, like middle of combat quickly. The answer was clear, I needed a simple, fast way to get the goggles off my eyes.
That meant going back to the helmet team and nearly starting from scratch. There were many groans. Some mine. But we knuckled down and got to work. It was immediately clear we would have to create a whole new helmet. Luckily, most of the tech systems were simply mounted. They could be remounted, with a little work, onto a new helmet. We reviewed helmet shape for a long time and came up with something that was very reminiscent of a Roman Galea. The cap was tighter to my head than the previous more wok shaped helmet had been and would have better back of the neck protection. In addition, we would work in a pair of cheek pieces that would dramatically improve lower face protection. The original Galea generally had raised sides for ears, as my ears would want to be muffed and protected, my helmet sides were flat and covered the ears.
The really tricky bit was the goggles. Originally intended to be fixed, we had to figure something out. It took some doing by the whole team, but the breakthrough came from a mechanical engineer on staff named Patel came up with a particularly elegant design. Patel's design allowed the goggles to pop up with a single button press. His design had the button on the right side of the helmet.
I looked at Patel and said, "Button has to be on the left side."
He smacked his head with a rueful smile, but it was really nothing. It was the tapping of a key on the computer to flip the design to a left hand button.
Now with a single button press with my left hand, the goggles would pop forward and up, leaving my eyes still protected by a visor made of optically correct hi-impact plastic. The goggles would be in position to protect the frog eyes. I would still be able to shoot the Glock the old fashioned way.
There was another thing affecting me in a lot of ways. After spending a month transforming, and still to some extent, continuing to transform, I could now feel the wolf inside. Where it had come from? I had no idea. Was it some sort of spirit? Was it a manifestation of myself? No idea. That said, the wolf was definitely exchanging thought with me and becoming part of me. I had yet to transform. Jake has to transform twice a month on the full moon. He comes here to the estate, transforms, runs around and howls, then we find him nude asleep the next morning. The girls like that.
Most stories one reads about werewolves, even in this more educated, less prejudiced era, are still loaded with anti-wolf junk. Werewolves are described as wild, lacking self-control, stupid, drunken, etc. All of that is based on the old hateful stereotypes of wolves. People have been afraid of wolves for a long time. Fear breeds hate. Hate has led to wolves being painted with every dark bit of imagery that humans hate about themselves. Real wolves have incredible self-control. They kill for food, not for sport or fun. Every thought they have is focused on survival. I would have thought the most valuable thing about being a werewolf would be physical. The wolf in me was teaching me all sorts of things about will and focus. A wolf has incredible will and focus. I was beginning to realize that could be more important than the physical advantages, but they were becoming part of me much more slowly.
I had also been thinking about my adversaries. I hadn't figured out any subtle details I had missed before, but I had realized a couple things. First, I should try and get a sample of their work. I knew nothing about tracking magic, but Jake had tracking skills and maybe I could figure something out. Secondly, instead of just killing them on the spot, maybe I should try and rescue them. That pale mud plaster was definitely about control. Maybe once the magic was broken, it would be possible to get the person out? Some of those people might be good allies. More importantly, it was the right thing to do. I'm a big believer in the golden rule and if I was trapped in that mud, it might be nice to die, but even better to be rescued. I wouldn't want to risk the people I cared about or myself too much, if I died, no one was being rescued. But if an opportunity arose?
I had gone back to the warehouse a few days later. Yes, I know, very stupid. Everything was cleaned up. You could see footprints in the dust, it's not like the place had been septically cleaned, but the bodies and the Poison Ivy mannequin were completely gone. As I examined the warehouse, I could see how the "Fomor" had set up on the north wall, expecting any attack to come from the road. I expect the plan was to let us in the front door, take us prisoner and present us in chains to Poison Ivy. I would imagine Ivy's chances for success converting us to her cause in that scenario would have been much higher.
We were closing in on go day. We started packing the RV. I wasn't planning on using it, but all my battle gear was coming along with large supplies of stage 2 ammo, shotgun ammo and all the stage 6 I had yet made. I was also filling the fridge up with groceries and lots and lots of pre-prepared meals by Miranda and other yummies like tins of muffins, pies, ice cream, and lots of fizzy apple juice.
Part of the fun of going to the Three Gun match was the chance to see the Speer-mint twins. The Speer twins were semi-famous. They had been US Olympic Biathletes. Now they were into Three Gun, hunting, fishing, camping and providing training. There had been a commercial that broadcast when I was at a formative age about a beautiful pair of blond women, i.e. the Spearmint twins. The fact that the Speers were beautiful blond twin women just made it too easy to nickname them.
I first met the twins when, early on, I was taking a lot of training classes as I tried to build up skills in self-defense and, particularly, firearms handling. I had money to spend and there's a lot of high-quality training for someone out there with money to spend. I would probably have been better off doing a stint in the military but, by the time I knew what I was up against, that ship had sailed. Now I had received some great training from many, often former military, trainers. However, there were some caveats I would have to apply. First, there was the tendency the trainers had to assume you either knew nothing and start at the most basic level of instruction or that your mother had been showing you basic firearms handling as she weaned you. There was a lot of unnecessary time wasted on lectures about various ideas they felt were important. There was also a lot of macho posturing.
I signed up for a three-day personal train with the Speer sisters. I'll admit, the chance to train was appealing, but I was sold by the chance of hanging out with two such crazy hot twins.
I went to the training not knowing what to expect. What I got was three days of the best training in my life. There was none of the pretense, just good practical technique and handling. Beyond the training, they provided excellent insight into performance under pressure.
A person could travel to the range day after day. Be able to shoot with amazing accuracy. Set up complicated shooting courses, burn through them and still fall apart when it becomes real. When you're life is really on the line, when it really counts, everything gets much harder. Mistakes one would never make in a thousand practice matches happen. Guns that have been rock solid reliable, jam. Decisions that were easy, suddenly become hard.
Stacy and Lina Speer had been to the Olympics. There are few crucibles of performance under pressure more intense than that. They could convey a lot of basic skill in handling that intense pressure and still performing. How to get one's self to breath, to think and to act when there were real chips on the table. They knew and they taught.
The training was in my early stages of mastering seemings. Yes, I pulled out a seeming and yes, we all ended up in bed together. Do I feel bad about it? No. If I had been running a computer training business in my younger days and Stephanie had showed up as a client and wanted to seduce me, I would have been quite happy to oblige. If down the road I had met up with Stephanie at some computer events and we had renewed our acquaintance, all the better. The temptation was to bring the Speers home. They would make great armed security and backup. I'm sure if I offered, they would be happy to come. However, that would mean I was pulling them into my fight. It's one thing to be my chef, yes there's danger, but it's limited. My security? Whole lot more so. Secondly, I felt guilty to some extant that I was using some portion of my girls' lives for my own ends. That said, I also knew I was really helping them to achieve their dreams. The Speer twins had lives right now. They were living their dreams. Coming to be my armed security would be giving that up. I suppose if their business ever started slowing down and they had financial problems, it might be a different story. But for now, there was an endless stream of well-heeled, horny, middle-aged gun nuts prepared to pay dearly for their very valuable services. So, no, they wouldn't be coming home as armed backup, but we did have a tradition of hooking up at Three Gun matches. They enjoyed using me as their personal cook and stress relief device. I got good company and coaching. We made an effort to be in the same group, or flight. Before each stage we would share notes. As I would run through, they would follow me and shout encouragement and advice. Then, after the fact, we would compare notes again about what had gone right and wrong.
We were going to meet at the MGM Ironman Three Gun match. It's the most intense match I know of. Every stage uses all three weapons. It requires more shots than any other match. It's more physically challenging than any other match requiring crawling, running, carrying heavy weights, going down a slide and zip lines. It's the biggest challenge to equipment, requiring more rounds fired under difficult circumstances, including dirt that became fine, silty dust that gets on and in everything. It's the least predictable. The stages are heavily reworked each year and the weather in eastern Oregon and western Idaho where this thing is held have ranged from hundred plus degrees, to rain storms, to one year, a snow storm in July.
In other words, an ideal training and testing ground. If my guns worked here, they worked. If they failed, better here than when the velociraptors were going for my head.
The equipment was always a sore spot for me in two ways. First, there are divisions in Three Gun, from all out tech guns optimized for competition through to much slower weapons. Ideally, one would compete against only one's division and that would give one a good sense of one's abilities. My natural division would be one called heavy metal, defined by rifles with .308 or larger caliber, pistols .45 caliber or larger and pump action shotguns. My 50 Beo was clearly bigger than a .308 and I was still using my Remington 870 Marine for competition, so those weren't problems. The sore spot was that a 10mm was considered smaller than a .45, even though I felt it was a bigger round with a bigger kick. It was a minor controversy in the Three Gun community. It meant I got dumped into the practical division which meant I was very unlikely to win as I was directly competing with people using much more optimized for competition equipment. In the end, I wasn't there to win a trophy and I didn't need prize money or sponsors. It was probably better for me to avoid the notoriety. In addition, the scores were numeric and it was quite simple to compare myself to the competitors in the heavy metal division if I was really curious. I shouldn't have been, but I always did. That said, I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to win and didn't want the trophy. I was the kid who never made the cut for teams and never won. I had only placed second at state in chess. I suppose none of us ever get exactly what we want.
The second problem was how I wore my weapons and mags. In my normal world, I always wore my coat. The coat was heavy armor. The new coat would be heavier. The coat also had illusions baked in that allowed me to do that appear two feet to the right trick, among others. The coat also had a holster built into the outside for the Glock. The holster was set just below the belt line, just in front of my midway line, just where my hand would reach for it if there was ever trouble. I also had mag pouches for Baby and the Glock built into the outside as well as a hanging spot for my axe.
In the history of the firearms community, holsters for mags and pistols used to be made of leather. For a while Nylon was popular. Nowadays Kydex is popular. Kydex is a hard plastic. There are manufacturers who use Kydex-like materials that are of lesser quality, those that make actual Kydex holsters and those that make holsters from Kydex-like materials that are of higher quality. It's a large marketplace. One could spend a lot of time testing different products. Materials Science is one of my forte's, so I came up with a simple solution. Turns out improved Type A makes an excellent holster that we could fit perfectly in the lab to match my pistol and mags. If you're going to have a hard piece of plastic sitting there, might as well get some extra bullet proofing.
Unfortunately, one can't wander about visibly armed, people panic in the silliest ways. So, I have small permanent illusions, or veils, on all the weapon and mag holsters on the coat. The veils are good enough to get me in and out of police stations and through airport security, so they're pretty good. I do have a concealed carry permit for Nebraska, but better to have and not need than need and not have. By the way, my new coat would have heating in the winter and cooling in the summer, that Svartalf magic was amazing.
All that is good, but I felt it was impractical to try and wear the coat through the match. Eccentric dress in the shooting community is looked upon with even more tolerance than the general public and wearing a (what would appear to be) an old west vest and Stetson hat would be smiled upon. The coat was a bridge too far.
The US military, and I suspect any military serious about winning, has a principal, "Fight like you train. Train like you fight."
Not using the coat and the gear I would generally wear meant I was breaking that principal and that made me uncomfortable. I made up a training rig that kept everything in about the same places. The training rig also had to have a lot of spots for shotgun ammo, as that would be well used in the match, but really wasn't part of my battle rig.
Between the shotgun and no coat, I was moving away from my real combat posture substantially. No training is perfect. Unfortunately, I've never heard of a Two Gun match. Maybe I should sponsor one? It might be popular. I'm not the only one who grumbles about shotguns.
The day came and I set out. I gave myself three days to get to the match. It can be driven in one long drive, but I didn't want to get there worn out. I made my way to Cheyenne on the first night. Then Salt Lake City the next night. I used truck stops for showers and toilets as much as possible. Yes, I had an RV with a nice shower and commode, but an RV only carries so much water. Waste it on showers and toilets when you don't need to, and you'll have to waste a lot of time on emptying the wastewater tank and filling the fresh. In turn, the truck stops will give you a free, cleaned just for your use, shower and toilet as a gift for filling one's diesel tank. After a fill up and shower in the morning, one can sit down to a hardy breakfast, not the cheapest or nicest, but very convenient and be on one's way. It was a short day's drive from Salt Lake up to the range. Though it's also some of the emptiest road in the US. I got to the campsite early, the day before the match, and got a good spot. Then I ran into the Speer Mints and there was much laughing and hugging.
Stacy, after hugging me, said, "Oh my god. You've lost so much weight."
Lina checked my arms, "And you've grown some pretty big new guns?"
Stacy then said with a worried suspicious look, "You haven't been messing with steroids have you?"
"No. No cancer and no steroids. Just healthy living." I lied. "I'm sure you'll have the proof of that soon enough."
Seeing someone naked would definitely reveal if there was steroid use, among other things, it tended to have some very negative effects on male genitalia.
The girls giggled in a nervous, naughty way.
We all went to registration together and double checked our registration, got final bits like numbers and confirmed we would be in the same "flight" or group.
The girls came with a tent. We went by and they opened up their locked truck and showed me their gear. I was all very neat and high-tech. I thought my stuff was better, but you never knew when or where you might get a good idea.
The twins liked staying in my more civilized RV. I showed them my new gear. They were very impressed.
"Unfortunately, we can't shoot in the campsite, or you'd be able to experience their silent, recoilless action." I said.
"50 Beo, no recoil, that's hard to believe." Said Stacy.
"You made all new guns from last year, but stayed with, essentially the same type of firearm." Lina said.
Lina's comment was the start of an old conversation. They wanted me to go to what they thought were more practical defensive rounds. They knew my choices were not based on Three Gun competition, but self-defense. For normal human self-defense, 5.56 and 9mm were much better choices than .50 Beo and 10mm. Unfortunately, I needed to defend against things that went bump in the night and had never explained that side of my life to them.
"I know what you think on that, but you'll just have to trust my judgment and accept that I have good reasons that I can't really explain." I replied.
Maybe I should explain some of it to them? If we got ambushed by the forces of evil, they deserved some warning. At the same time, it was hard to convince people of the supernatural. Yes, I could do some neat tricks, but in our days of Industrial Light and Magic, it takes some really serious demonstration to get someone to believe it. My Dad lived with my Mom for over twenty-five years and never believed there was anything supernatural going on, at least he never admitted it. I had never figured out a simple way to explain it.
I started up some preseasoned steaks. Two nice human sized ones for Stacy and Lina and one monster sized one for me. We all had a beer and then switched to fizzy apple juice, something I had hooked them on. I had also warmed some potatoes. Miranda had loaded the fridge with many different potato dishes and other fruit and veggie sides. We had a great dinner. The twins regaled me with stories of great hunts and competitions they had strived in during the last year. I envied them their carefree lifestyle and resolved again not to draw them into my world. Another thing against explaining, if they knew I was in real danger, they'd probably insist on coming home with me to be my security and I wanted it so bad, I didn't think I'd have the will to say "no."
Then we went back to the real king sized bed and I proved I wasn't using steroids. The twins were in amazing physical shape. Some of the best physical trainers in the world had worked them to a razor's edge before and now, if anything, they hadn't lost a step, they had probably gained one. Before being with them had been like trying to drive two Formula One cars at the same time. Fun for a beginning driver like me, but nowhere near their potential. Now, the possibilities opened wide. Based on my previous limits, the girls were trying to be careful with me. Tonight, they were learning they could let themselves go, and go again and I could keep performing. It was a very satisfying evening and the kind of confidence boost one would like to have on the eve of a big competition.
The next morning we woke up early. A big breakfast, athletes need energy to get through a long physical day, and they were off to their tent to get ready and I started pulling myself together. First, I packed a little wheeled cart. Loaded up my guns, ammo, some basic repair tools, a big sandwich for lunch, lots of drinks. Also, a folding chair that strapped on the side to rest between stages. There was also a discreet spot where I kept mags loaded with stage Six. This place was very safe, but you never knew. The Fomor in that warehouse thought the water behind them was safe. Didn't work out well for them. Then I pulled on my vest, some standard pants, new boots and cup. Of course, I wore my "hat." I also wore my gauntlets, they wouldn't stand out much here and this match was notorious for crawling. The vest's shell, part of my competition rig, had mag holders on it in the right spots. I also had extra shotgun shell holders on my belt.
This match would be a major shakedown. I hadn't had a shift in gear this big, maybe ever. I had gotten out to the farm and did some more shooting with Stage Two and the new optic system. Baby and the Glock both had the optic system mounted. Part of the joy of the optic system was that it learned. It would keep track of conditions and where bullets landed getting better at predicting impact as it was used. I put three hundred Stage Twos down range with the rifle. The accuracy was amazing. Before I could get minute of angle accuracy out past nine hundred meters, but that meant slow aimed shots while sitting with a careful rest. Now I could get the same shots standing, kneeling, lying prone and much faster. I also put a couple hundred rounds through the Glock, practicing my accuracy, speed and ability to shift the goggles. Eventually, I'd be able to leave the goggles on all the time, but training to be able to shift away from them smoothly and quickly and still fight effectively was clearly a prudent step. At the end I ran ten stage Six rounds each through Baby and the Glock. There was a lot of new magic and stage Six is heavier than stage One. I was gratified that the new stage Sixes worked extremely well. The last three shots of stage Six with Baby were a heavy duty cinder block, reduced to dust. A watermelon simply detonated. Then the piece de resistance, literally, a superhumanly big block of ballistic gelatin with a very solid steel hide at one hundred meters. The five fifty steel hide shattered and a wound channel of gargantuan proportions was created. I recorded the whole thing in slow-mo from several angles. Simply epic. I'd love to put it on YouTube, but can't for obvious reasons.
There was also the werewolf factor, both physical and mental. How would that impact my performance?
I showed up just a few seconds before the twins to our flight's rally point and we joined our group for the mandatory rules and safety lecture. Then it was on to the stages.
It was a long hard day of shooting from there. Physically, I was almost twice as fast as I had been before. I was about ten percent better with the shotgun, fifty percent better with the Glock and I didn't miss a shot with Baby all day. Yes, the guns ran flawlessly. The twins were in awe of Baby. They each got to shoot her a few times between stages. Stacy did well, but was speechless from the lack of recoil. Lina, over compensated for recoil and hit the dirt about twenty meters away with her first shot. I really couldn't have asked for much more. I was thinking what it would be like when I had the sighting system at a hundred percent.
The twins headed back to their tent to maintenance and lock up their equipment. Lina would take a while. Her race AR had jammed that day and would need a very thorough once over. Then they would come over. I got the risotto in the oven and gave my gear a thorough going over as well. All good.
I cleaned my clothes and gear and put them up for the night. Then I took a quick rinsing shower. The girls showed up, each with a bag of necessaries and used my commode and shower. They came out in short, thin silk kimonos I had prepared for them. That night we feasted on slow roasted brisket that had been prepared by Miranda and started by the timer in my RV's oven. Some sweet wine, salad and risotto made for a great meal followed by ice cream eaten in very unusual ways. The home-made chocolate sauce and whipped cream were very tasty.
After our first bout of ice cream eating, we started going over the day. I had obviously made substantial improvements, but I was still not in Stacy and Lina's class. I had a few small comments, mostly they pointed out my mistakes. I listened humbly. Their advice was literally valuable.
At one point, Lina said, "Stacy and I noticed your shirt."
I was kind of pleased with my shirt so I said, "Yes." expecting a compliment.
"It's kind of old fashioned." Lina said.
"Well, I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy." I said while thinking to myself, "Other than my super high-tech suite of gear and my willingness to cat around with a long list of women."
"You might want to try something more like this." Lina said getting out of bed and showing me her shirt. It was one of those skin tight, athletic shirts they sold in sporting goods stores. Honestly, I thought the twins wore them as a fashion thing. They were young, beautiful and very fit. Skin tight clothing on them got attention which I'm sure didn't hurt their sponsors' feelings.
"I'm not sure that would fit." I answered in the same tone of voice I might have used if they had suggested competing in women's under things.
"I'm sure they make them in your size. If you watch, you'll see the top male competitors wear a similar shirt." Stacy added.
Lina continued, "They are good for temperature control, they're warm in cold temps and breath in hot temps. They give you protection with minimum resistance. You've probably noticed you're old style shooting shirt bunching in uncomfortable ways."
Oh lord had I noticed.
"I'll look into it when I get back home." I said. They gave me the number of the outfit they thought made the best shirts.
"They'll make you custom stuff if you're willing to pay." Lina added.
The next two days flew by. Incredible shooting during the day, good food and excellent company each night. It's hard to quantify the coaching the twins gave. Essentially, I had been going at stages as my old self with extra horsepower. Now that I was more capable, I needed to start thinking differently about strategy. I didn't need to crawl harder under an obstacle when I could jump over it much faster.
I was also getting more in tune with the wolf. The wolf had perfect focus and absolute will. It didn't think in shades of grey or maybe. Once committed, it would go absolutely. Compared to a wolf, the Terminator is an emo metro sexual.
The last day of shooting came. There was general partying and celebration till around eleven. We were all exhaustedly happy. In the practical group, I hadn't even made the top ten. If I had been in heavy metal, I would have won. The girls and I had a late supper and we had a final night together in the RV. Even exhausted, the girls were young and in remarkable physical condition and, for a night, I was young too.
We woke in the morning. Had some happy sad kisses and hugs. Promised to meet up again soon and went our separate ways.
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