State of the Bourbon Address

By the Checkered Demon

Northeast bound and down, rising from the swamp like some Japanese sea-thang, on up through Mississippi, North Alabama and Tennessee, then finally Kentucky. An old 30 year work pal at the wheel, and me as the passenger, since he trusts no one to drive like him. He may be right, for he's one of the worst I've ever seen. One of those who never has a wreck himself, but leaves plenty in his wake as he wanders obliviously back and forth across two lanes, rumble strip to rumble strip. I peek back in my mirror now and then, expecting to see burning vehicles behind us as he tailgates, fails to signal and constantly changes speed. He drives like he just chugged a quart of 115 proof Rye, and I'm forever amazed he doesn't ever get pulled over for a breath test in the giant new Toyota Land Cruiser. Perversely, I felt rather safe.

The perfect traveler never knows their destination, and hewing to that philosophy I didn't know a thing about Knob Creek Shooting Range, neither the precise location nor hours of operation. By the time we'd winkled it out of the river bottoms, the only guy there was sweeping up brass and told us to come back at 0800 tomorrow. No big deal really, since we had come for the whiskey on our annual State of the Bourbon Address. We cruised back to town and sat down in a Mexican beanery next to a table full of Bardstown PD detectives. They were 2-3 margaritas in, and therefore safe to be near. Rolled on back to the motel later and killed the bottle of Redemption Rye we'd been nursing since New Orleans, to dream of rattle-guns and short, controlled bursts.

The next morning found us weaving back over to the range, being passed by everything from muscle cars to busted pick-ups, blowing horns and giving the "No. 1" salute, glaring through Duck Dynasty beards. "People are so fucking rude these days", said Pat.

"It's all that TV," I opined.

The range was open and we entered the gun shop, confronted by three watchful dogs, a Finnish anti-tank rifle on skis and a Gatling gun. We gave each other the Groucho eyebrows and thought yes! Counting rifles, shotguns, pistols and zombie guns, there were probably 1,000 or more firearms on display; even a nifty little flame thrower. Big Boy Heaven. Hmmm, an idea for good old Baltimore's streets.

So I found someone and asked how one goes about renting and shooting a machine gun. Two weeks, August 12, when we hold our Gun Shoot & Military Gun Show.

I said, "Pat, we ain't shootin' no machine guns today. We're two weeks early."

"Then we're not shootin' this year then, I guess."

"Don't look like it."

Pat cruised around looking at guns, since he sold land in California recently and has been spending a bit more lately on the firearms front. I saw 37 or so things I couldn't live without and passed on it all, went outside, found a spot to sit and lit up a cigar.

I sat out in my windbreaker enjoying a new one from Nicaragua, listening to a distant brrrt, brrrt, punctuated with a chug-chug-chug, brrrt, brrrt; wishing I was there watching, trying to identify the guns from long shelved memories.

My day dreams were interrupted by "that's one fine smelling cigar, young man. What is it?"

"Erm, it's a Roberto Duran. My new favorite, a Nicaraguan. About $133 at JR Cigars."

"Well, it's the best I've smelt lately for sure."

I pulled out my 2 cigar travel case, extracted the remaining one and offered it.

"No, no, that would leave you dry. Fugeddaboutit,"

"I have most of a box back in the hotel. Feel free. Be my guest."

He accepted it, slicked it down, produced a tiny penknife for the cap and fired it up with a gold gas Dunhill. He lit up (properly), took a puff or two and tasted it. Took the smoke up his nose then exhaled in a long sigh. "Perfect! Very fine. Do you know the head of tobacco production in Cuba doesn't smoke?"

He produced a case and handed me a Cuban Robusto. "This one you have is superior, I'm thinking."

We sat and smoked awhile. New sounds drifted up from the lower range: bzzzt, bzzzt. "The boys have new toys, it sounds like. Were you in the military?"

"Air Force, loadmaster, 1608th out of Charleston, MATS."

"So, what's your name?" the stranger asked; I told him.

"Well, I'm [redacted], a retired three star, USAF. Nice to meet you, Airman. That was my command."

"I'm floored, General, not to mention honored."

"Don't you dare. We were all assholes back then. We'd forgotten war and had to relearn it," the General said.

"I did my hitch and forgot about it quick as I could. Haven't thought of it much since."

"That's because you never got nailed. You can't forget shit like that so easily."

"I guess so. The worst I ever saw was mortar rounds walking across a base in my direction, but not quite getting there. Sometimes they did, but not that time. So you were a lucky duck. Been a little closer and it would have stuck hard in your brain housing group. Yup. God loves me, I suppose."

We sat awhile, smoking.

"So, are you here to shoot?" he asked.

"I heard this place gives machinegun rides, and thought me and my bud might enjoy it. Turns out we're two weeks early. Maybe next year. We do a trip to Kentucky annually to check out the new bourbons.

"Go to the store and buy a range pass. Buy two boxes of 45ACP and four boxes of 9MM. I've got three nice growlers I want to shoot before I sell them at the next show."

"Yes sir!"

I went to the clerk to buy my range pass and bullets, and Pat, waiting on a call to his FFL to transfer the pistol he'd bought. "Why the range pass?"

"I met a general, and he's taking me shooting."

"Bullshit!"

"No shit."

"I want to meet him."

"Do it."

Pat scurried out back, and we found General X loading rounds and guns into a golf cart.

"I'm the Checkered Demon's bud, and I'd like to tag along, if you wouldn't mind?"

"Did you serve in the military?"

"Yes sir."

"What branch?"

"I was in the Army."

"You Army guys are lowlifes. You go buy a range pass. You can watch, but me and the airman will be shootin'. We're leaving now. Walk on down to the lower range and bring some ear muffs."

I shot the Reising, then the two Swedish Ks. Two magazines each.

"All right, Airman. I want to shoot these Ks a bit more, see that the magazines are kosher. Say goodbye, you know. You're relieved."

"Thank you General, and joy to your life."

"Fly straight, airman. And good luck."

Pat and I walked back up to the shop. "You cocksucker!"

"No, lucky sucker."

Pat went off muttering to finalize his deal. I sat in the car, grinning like a mule eating briars. God DOES love me I thought, and sometimes he shows it. Sometimes is good enough.

CD

PS from the Real Checkered Demon:

The Checkered Demon is a notorious liar. A lot is true, indeed most, but sad to say I never fired a shot. This should be called historical fiction.

(c) 2018 The Checkered Demon