They were daring all right—the thieves who stole my guns. That’s right, I had firepower—until somebody who knew what he was looking for made his getaway.
First was a wooden-stock AK-47. Brand-new, I had it in case Al Qaeda came knocking. The other was a replica Thompson Sub-machine gun firing 45 caliber bullets. Bonnie and Clyde had used one just like it as an automatic teller machine.
My peeps told me I might have been looted by the dreaded gang Satan’s Skittles. Yup, they’d gotten the drop on my homeys, the Buhne Street Co-dependants.
Of course I’ll never see the guns again—or so I assumed. They’d probably already been fenced to the even deadlier Hilfiker Group.
So I called the cops. They had never seen anything like this in a city known for its pristine innocence. In fact, they had thought of renaming its airport “Eden International,” where dreams take flight and always land on time.
I filed a missing gun report and then waited for the perp to confess. Then I checked the pawnshops, Eureka’s own lost and found system. Nothing.
For a day, I fumed about my loss. How had my guard-dog Fiona allowed crime in my own home, where nothing unusual ever happens? But then my Sherlock Holmes instincts kicked in. I had read all his stories including my favorite, “The Case of the Speckled Band.” In it, a poisonous snake is attracted to his victim by a saucer of milk. I thought they were lactose intolerant.
I listed the stolen guns on Craigslist under “Lost and Found, Collectors’ Firearms.” In just over an hour, I had a tip. Time: 12:30 am., lunchtime for Eureka’s bakers and cookers. It told me to look on a certain inner-city address where I would find two “thieves.” What are the odds?
I drove by and thought of stopping—but then thought better of it. They might be entertaining guests from out of town. But when we meet, I will embrace them, and thank them for their brightness in my otherwise ordinary life. Thoughts of brotherly love will help me through the night, filling theirs with giddy merriment.
Then, at dawn, a man arrived at my house, gun wrapped in a blanket, its innocence protected from the harsh light of day. That’s right, I have contacts in the underworld. They’re like family to me. My baby was home. It was the AK-47, its wood stock rich with layers of life, its barrel glistening like the moon on a mountain lake, its bullet-clip thirsting for the milk of human aggression.
I’m told that my firearm would be worth two ounces of crystal meth. I would have accepted nothing less.
The other gun is still out there, the Thompson Sub-machine gun, no doubt in the arms of a nurturing mother, “Ma Barker.” So I went back to that house in question, a cute little place if their guard-dog had not eaten the front yard. Maybe they know somebody who knows somebody. There can’t be that many Tommy Guns in town. I left a note and sooner or later I will meet them. I mean no harm. I just want my “piece” back.
I have learned something from my loss. Cherish and protect the ones you love, especially if they are of high caliber.