On Guns and Lovers©

George G. Epp

Oh, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways . . . 

Consider the union of a man and his rifle. Observe how it nestles in the crook of his arm, how it glints and winks in the sunlight, how it’s warm wooden stock brushes his cheek as he lines up the notch and the bead with a target, possibly a milk bottle, deer, another man. A target. He closes one eye, steadies his grip and at exactly the right moment, releases all the pent up energy reserved in the gun for this one, orgasmic burst of power and release. And he sighs, lowers the muzzle, returns the rifle to the crook of his arm

 . . . and lights a cigarette.

Parenthetically, contemplate for a moment what happens mechanically when he squeezes the appendage—commonly called the trigger— below the barrel. In rapid sequence, a spring-driven hammer strikes a tiny detonator in the back of a prepackaged missile-casing commonly called a cartridge, the detonator immediately ignites a cache of powder in the shell of the cartridge and the resulting explosion drives a steel or lead projectile through the barrel at a tremendous speed. If tool and man have all performed as planned, the projectile will lodge itself deeply in the target—if that target possesses enough mass to slow the projectile to a halt, as in the case of, say, a pile of hay bales, a large animal or an adult human torso—or it will pass completely through to spend itself in the somewhere beyond, as in the case of, say, a tin can, a bird or the soft skull and brain matter of a human infant.

Consider also that the laws of the universe apply to the workings of the gun, rifle, pistol, peashooter or guided missile. All projectiles travel in an arc as the drag of air resistance and gravity overcomes the inertia of motion supplied by the explosion in the cartridge or the flaming thrust of a rocket engine. Ponder the significance of the certainty that all projectiles so launched will eventually return to earth. The arc of a projectile is extremely difficult to calculate, and errors are common, as in, say, a projectile launched at a deer where faulty wind correction and/or an improper adjustment of a sight results in the projectile passing over the moose or deer in the hunter’s sights and embedding itself tragically in the heart of a young mother picking berries for her children. Weigh the defense that the fault for her death can appropriately be laid at the feet of natural law and the quite unpredictable anomalies best seen as expected, random errors in human judgment. A projectile must do what all projectiles must do, whether thrown rock, javelin, shot put, cruise missile; it doesn’t matter.

Or imagine for a moment the possibility that the gun is a part of the man as a crowbar is the extension of his arm, providing fulcrum-and-lever advantage to the natural capability of muscle-bone-sinew. Consider that the gun is no more than such an extension providing, in its case, flaming energy and mechanical advantage to the human arm’s ability to launch projectiles. (Whether these projectiles are rocks, hammers, frying pans, nuclear pay-loads, spears or spittoons is not the issue.) And after once having tasted the advantage of a crowbar, will any intelligent being ever again dig up rocks with his bare hands? And will any intelligent man ever again bring down a moose with a mallet? Surely the gun is nothing but a tool for the man. It is a crowbar-for-the-hurling-of-projectiles, whether at wild game, college women, anonymous bystanders, magpies, door locks, evil people imagined to be gathered for evil purposes in fast food restaurants, submarines, Dresden, Saddam Hussein, skunks, etc., etc.

Recognize that the world is full of objects apparently in need of having projectiles hurled at them. (Indeed, so many targets, so little time.) Calculate how this massive chore would not be remotely possible if man were to attempt it without the extension to his capabilities provided by this tool we call the gun.

And now, observe specifically the man who holds the gun. All men must by the nature of this universe walk among other men, or other women, or children. Consider that the man who walks among others is no island, but rather one creature in a herd of other creatures much like himself. That men should brush and bump together in the course of day-to-day commerce is a certainty. That multiple men should occasionally reach for the same piece of meat, the same stick, the same ball, the same . . . thing, is equally inevitable. Imagine that there would arise among all these non-islands a fierce competition for space, or the biggest piece of dinosaur steak, or land, or a beautiful woman, or first crack at the Wii, or money. And consider that as a crowbar was seen to enhance rock-moving capabilities, the mind of man would naturally turn to tool making in this competition-for-space-and-stuff.

And picture early-man-without-tool engaging in a violent, to-the-death-if-necessary brawl for the favours of a shapely and desirable (if remarkably hairy) female and finding that the exigencies of hand-to-hand pushing, shoving and punching included as much damage received as given, so that the object of his desire would immediately turn elsewhere out of visceral disgust at the prospect of embracing a bloodied savage with two broken arms, few remaining teeth and copious oozing of effluents normally confined to the interior of his person. Man would as naturally seek a tool of combat as he would seek a tool of building. 

And consider that this theory is as firm a ground as any on which to construct its corollary, namely that the gun may be as natural an outgrowth of the evolution of humankind as is, say, the opposable thumb.

And imagine next the first really clever combatant in this world of competitive striving, huddled behind a small bush in prehistoric times, juggling sticks and stones and vines and pummeling his forehead (assuming he already has one) in a concerted attempt to invent a device which would enable him to annihilate his adversary without himself becoming the victim of even those altercations ostensibly “won.” And accept that relatively few random jugglings of found objects would be required (considering the laws of probability which clearly show that if you put enough high school students in a room with enough typewriters and give them enough time, they will eventually construct a coherent sentence, if only by their random pecking at keys) in order for the accidental discovery of David’s sling to spring upon our half-developed cave man. From thence to the sling-shot, the bow and arrow, the catapult, the crossbow, the rifle, the missile, the atom bomb is simply a smooth and continuous progression in tool-refinement, interrupted only briefly to wait for the invention of gun powder.

Penultimately, contemplate the folly of those who propose that because the projectile weapon is actually a coward’s tool in that it allows mayhem to be perpetrated from concealment (as from airplanes, speeding cars, textbook depositories, duck blinds), it should be banned forthwith. Consider the idiotic courage of even suggesting such a proposal in a world where everybody and his dog is armed to the teeth and would just as soon hurl yet another projectile at any threatening gesture from any sane person . . . as look at him/her.

Consider lastly that the tool we call a “gun” (cannon, shotgun, combat rifle, revolver, rocket launcher; it doesn’t really matter) may be here to stay. Its projectiles will miss as often as not. They will fall to earth on top of kindergartens, hospitals, farmers in their fields, fire halls and chiropractic offices with disturbing frequency. They will be misused (being tools, after all) as chisels are used for screwdrivers and crescent wrenches for hammers, so that those who have erroneously or feloniously, militarily or serendipitously been “projectiled” will typically be found mangled or dead . . . with frozen looks of surprise on their faces.

After centuries spent romancing the tools of battle, the iconic gesture between a man and his gun is surely the caress; the symbol of his oneness with his rifle is the tender anointing with oils; the languorous strokes of the chamois over the flanks and belly of the voluptuous machine are the very act of arousal; the roar from the muzzle the frenzied consummation.

What do passionate lovers care about the inevitable collateral damage of their fevered couplings?

Call them tools, call them lovers, what does it matter in the end? Register them, license them, attempt to regulate them as you will, a tool is a tool and a man is a man— and a man and his tool are not easily parted.

And because the tool is also the lover, well . . ..