The Psychotic Scrivener

What’s that expression that’s used when you want to start telling an amusing story? Oh yeah! Now I got it….
A funny thing happened to me one day at the shooting range.

Yes, I said shooting range. And it may not be proper or very politically correct using “funny” and “shooting” in the same sentence, but please don’t take it the wrong way. And if you’re anti-gun, spare me your opinions and just stop reading now. If you’re not, then by all means, keep reading.

Let’s start again (clearing throat)… A funny thing happened to me one day at the shooting range. – Hold it a sec! – I should back it up a little and fill you in on some details first.

The year was 1994. I was living downtown in the city (I’m not telling you which city, so don’t ask) in a huge row home just on the border of a not-so-nice part of town. I decided to get a license to carry and buy myself a gun. For defense. For peace of mind. To protect myself and my kids. So I bought a Smith & Wesson 38 Special revolver. It was a great little gun to start out with. I learned gun safety and practiced shooting. I started going to gun shows. Checked out gun shops. Found an indoor shooting range. I was hooked. (For anyone that knows me, I have a very, very addictive personality. When I get interested in something, I go all out). After a bit I upgraded my 38 to a Ruger 357 Magnum SP101 (now I was really packing some heat).

A little time later I bought myself a 3rd gun: a cute little black Beretta Tomcat 22 semi-automatic pistol (oops, there I go again… not very apropos using cute and gun in the same sentence). I also treated myself to another gun (told you I go big when I get into something) for target shooting at the indoor range… a Colt 22 semi-auto; very sleek looking gun. It was the Colt that made this story.

So, a funny thing happened at the indoor shooting range one day. All set up in my little area, safety glasses on, ear plugs tightly tucked into my ears, and Colt 22 in hand, I began shooting at the target located about 25 yards at the opposite end of my shooting lane.

I was having a blast (no pun intended) and in deep concentration, and then… – Ok, pause! – But just for a minute. For those of you reading this and not familiar with a semi-automatic pistol, when it’s fired the bullet shell casing ejects from the gun, usually landing on the floor behind you. – Ok, un-pause, hit play – I was having fun and in deep concentration when I took a shot. The bullet flew with lightning speed toward the target, the bullet shell casing ejected out of the gun at the same time and then… (you’ll never guess what happened or even believe me, but it’s true)… and it flew into the air hitting me square in the middle of my forehead! A direct hit! Bull’s eye! (Actually two of them…I hit the middle of the target too, with the bullet).

For a fraction of a second, I was in slight shock, my brain not quite registering what had just happened. A second or two passed and coming out of my state of shock, I heard a faint and quick sizzling sound (similar to the sound of bacon frying in a pan) and also realized my forehead really hurt. I reached up to touch where the burning pain was coming from and my fingers found the bullet casing! (When the casings come out of the gun they are extremely hot). That little metal sucker had seared itself to my skin on my forehead! Stuck on me like a fly on flypaper!

All in all, the aftermath left on my face didn’t look that bad, kind of like what a burn from a curling iron would look like. In fact, that’s the story I stuck to (again, no pun intended). The last thing I wanted to do when asked the question, “What happened to you?” was to answer with: “Well, a funny thing happened at the shooting range…