Sun of a Gun

“Blackjack!”

“Ramiro! You son of a bitch! You’ve been too kind this evening but it looks like the changing of the guards is taking place.” Baron said this as each dealer rotated over to the next table. “If my lucky charm’s leaving the table then it is time for me to hit the bar.”

Baron flipped Ramiro a $25 chip and prepared to walk away from the table a richer man when a soft hand touched his back, the index finger dragging across his bare neck. Turning with his eyes glued to the ground, Baron came upon a pair of bright red heels housing some manly, toe-hair bearing feet. Baron’s eyes drifted upwards and gazed at the long black dress which hung just over the top of the heels and then at a long white beard that started at his chest. As the boy’s eyes hit his elder’s face, he scanned through the bushy beard to see none other than the President of the United States, Donald Trump.

“Dad, is that you? What are you doing here? And why the hell are you wearing a dress?” Baron asked in a senseless tone.

“One question at a time kid,” the man in the black dress retorted. “Don’t be a bigot, it’s 2018. All kinds of men are wearing dresses now. They’re in. And so are beards. You’re a millennial. You should know about beards…suppose it’d help if you could grow one.”

“Yeah, and you could pull off those heels better if you trimmed your toe hairs. Speaking of heels, can you click those rubies together so we can get out of here? This is getting too weird.”

Baron’s new friend sized him up, stopping at his eyes, “No I can’t. You know I was kidding about the dress, right? These are my robes you dingus, I just came from court. And the heels – well don’t ask. To be frank, this is a dream and I‘m here for advice from you…for probably the first time in your life. Sit down. And call me Donnie. Baron, this is a bit complex, and extremely random; you probably won’t understand, but there’s a gun on trial in my courtroom next door.”

As they placed their bets and the dealer dealt, Baron looked at the man in the black dress quizzically and questioned, “I’m sorry; there’s a gun on trial? What the hell kind of an analogy is that? And since when did you become a judge Donnie?”

“I’m not a judge, I am the judge. And it’s no analogy Baron. The defendant in this case is a gun. A talking gun. It’s like that Nas song where he personifies a gun being misused for unnecessary violence. Except there’s literally a gun on my chair, shooting words out of its nozzle like it’s murdering ears… Hit,” said Donnie to the dealer’s gaze.

She flipped over a king, adding ten to Vince’s eleven and giving him 21. “Winner!” She exclaimed as she payed him out.  Next, her attention turned to Baron who had aces sitting in front of him. “Split ‘em,” he mumbled and looked on in shock as two jacks came next, resulting in two more blackjacks.

After a strangely mild celebration, Baron looked at the bearded-dream-version of the president and his father and said, “Well this has been a terrific night on the blackjack table, but did you just say something about a talking gun murdering ears?”

Good ol’ Donnie, similarly flabbergasted, nodded and responded “Oh yes, I did say that. It keeps blabbering about living in its mother’s basement, eating Flaming Hot Cheetos and providing for his family that he doesn’t even have. This…gun gives off the craziest aura I’ve ever seen. It glows right there in front of my very eyes like the sun is in my courtroom. It’s got quite the following as well. I’ve had countless witnesses at the stand begging me to take mercy and not blame the gun for other’s crimes. These people are terrified that their guns will be taken. And this damn gun…it just kept stirring up trouble with every bit of nonsense it sprayed. The prosecutor wasn’t even sure what to do up there, so I had to call a recess.”

“Wow. Well, I don’t know how I’m supposed to give you advice about this but, why is the gun on trial in the first place?”

“Baron, with the ongoing violence in this world, people are scared. Some people are blaming guns, some the president, some think it’s a lack of security, and some just blame Russia. I don’t know about that last one, I personally like those guys, but they’ll blame anything because they don’t have a solution.”

“And you came to me? For advice on guns? Which I have zero knowledge of? Although I did play a lot of Call of Duty back in the day,” Baron mumbled off dazedly.

“Hey! Focus kid. The guns have selected this particular pistol to represent them all on trial and it happens to be a complete nut-job! But it reminds me of you, so maybe you can figure out what I should do with it.”

“Well, guns have been around forever. And before forever, people found other ways to kill each other. So if guns went away, they’d still find a way to get their fix. Plus, we could never get rid of all the guns. So maybe the Somali pirates would come back from voyage once we melted all the guns and enslave us all with their own guns? Maybe we could just remove everyone’s hands? No…if scientists can make sex robots then I’m sure they’ll figure out how to shoot a gun using a nub.”

“You little shit, be serious here, I don’t have all day!” Donnie huffed back.

Baron’s dreaming brain began working harder as he glanced at the split aces on the table, which still sat there for some reason.

As a light shot on in his mind, Baron rendered his advice to the man in the black dress: “Rather than split our military up in a hundred different illegal wars, why don’t we pull them all back home? Put them and their big ass guns all over the country like one big refugee camp. All the violence in this country would cease. That’s got to be the only way!”

“Oh boy, Baron. You’ve been a recluse for too long. I love the ‘peace and harmony’ concept, but I’m going to let the guns walk. Do you realize how important they are to the economy of this country? Let’s just sit back and watch the world burn like we’ve done since humans first left their caves. Violence is our finest contribution, it’s my job to keep it that way.”

With a defeated, yet understanding tone, Baron looked one last time at the man in the black dress and agreed, “Well, that’s a bleak way to put it. But, I digress, let’s go home.”

 

MR.G

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