The Chameleon

The Shooting Range

I pulled up to the range blaring Schubert's 9th symphony in the parking lot. I whistled aloud as I entered the building and slid my I.D card under the window at the front desk.

"Welcome back Mr. Turnip! Mr. Douglas and Mr. Vanderveen just checked in 10 minutes ago. They are in the basement warming up. We have Field 6 ready for you guys. Here are some extra ear plugs for under the muffs."

"Thanks Cameron, you're the man"

"What did I tell you James?"

"Refresh my memory."

"Don't call me the man. I'm a lady."

"Of course you are," I smiled and walked over to the elevator. We always give Cameron a hard time because of her name. She's a good sport. She's also absolutely stunning... for a guy.

Inside the elevator, I tapped the "B" button and threw in my ear buds followed by my isolation muffs, still whistling as the elevator dropped floors. It's a general rule of thumb to double-up on ear protection as to not shatter your ear drums. 

The gates of terror opened and guns were a-blazing. I strolled down the line-of-fire scanning for the pals, noticing Mr. Mick Douglas' stupid ponytail from a mile away. Mr. Ron Vanderveen was next to him, unloading his pistol on some poor target which he named after his ex-wife. I flicked Mick's ponytail as I walked over to my booth. He winked at me. I winked back, sliding my goggles up my beak. I pressed the START button at my booth and a paper target flew into my field of vision. For some reason, I always picture a cat's head on the target. Because fuck cats. I'm not only allergic to them, I just strongly believe that they serve no purpose; glorified rodents.

Around fifteen minutes elapsed and the boys were all warmed up. The elevator in the range was sealed like an isolation chamber; no sound gets in, no sound gets out. We took off our muffs.

"Good morning girls," Mick snickered.

"It's half past noon you old squid," Ron rebuttalled.

"Oh put a sock in it you fat wart."

I have always appreciated their relationship; in fact, it's probably the main reason why I still hang around them. They make me feel more neutral about my off-coloured behavioural traits.

First up to bat, me. I cocked the double-barrel shotgun, yelling "PULL!" as the trap sent the first plate into mid-air. I pulled the trigger and smashed the not-so-fine china into oblivion.

"NICE SHOT BROTHER! That bird didn't even see it coming." Mick shrieked from behind me.

"Are you going to be yelling the whole time?" I said.

"Most likely."

"Perfect. I'm still going to beat you, everyone knows you can't handle the 8th position."

"Fuck you I can't. I've been practicing everyday."

Ron chimed in. "What does your girl think of that?"

"She doesn't know. She thinks I go dance lessons everyday. The other day, she made me show her what I have been learning so I pulled out a horrifying interpretive performance from thin air. She is so proud of me."

"I bet," Ron chuckled.

"PULL!" I yelled again.

Skeet shooting is quite an intricate concept. It's a game of angles and mathematic formulas, involving time, speed and distance. The shooter starts from seven positions on a semicircle with a radius of 21-yards. There is an eighth position halfway between 1 and 7 that is taken care of last, it is also the trickiest position.

Also on the skeet range are two "houses" which reside on the left and right side of the semicircle. The high house (on the left) and the low house (on the right), both contain trap machines, which launch the skeets from their windows.

I finished up the course, with almost 100% accuracy, missing only one shot on the 8th position. It was Mick's turn. He talks a big game, but when the time comes for him to step up to the plate, he crumbles under "the pressure". He missed at least 6 plates, yelling at himself every time. "Pathetic. I'm a pathetic loser. I should just stick to dance." Ron has better accuracy then Mick, proven by the fact he only missed 3 plates.

We walked by the front desk on our way out, all bidding farewell to Cameron. "Later dude!" Ron said.

"Have a good day brother," I said right after. Mick was so disappointed in his performance on the field that he didn't say a word. He is usually the one to cross the line with her.

"How did you shoot Mick?" Cameron asked, fully aware of how poorly he shot.

"How is your 3 o'clock shadow?" Mick chirped back, walking out of the building in front of us. Cameron had a hearty laugh as Ron and I followed suit.

We leaned on the hoods of our cars, which were parked in a row beside each other. Mick and I lit up smokes.

"Don't be so hard on yourself Micky," Ron said.

"I can't help it. You know how I am."

"What are you mudbloods up to tonight?" I changed the subject before Mick got too emotional.

"Dance lessons with my interpretive instructor, Giorgio," Mick said with a blank expression on his face. Ron and I gave him concerned looks.

"I'm going to the theatre with my Meredith. We are going to see Cats, again..."

"Sounds exhilarating. Well gentlemen, I gotta jet. Got a dinner date with Linds. Arriva derci!"

"Ciao bella," Ron said. Mick gave a nod and lit another smoke off of his previous one, looking deeply at nothing.