God-given gifts

Good at it.

"I've neva really liked shootin' people, it's jest sumin' that come natural - my gift - and you should never waste your god-dam-god-given gift. Well, that's what me Ma used to say, cept for the dam part, that wuz jest me.

But I didn't kill that man. I woulda, but I didn't.

It's complicated.

I betta tell ya from the beginnin', how it all started. I haven't told anyone tha full story before, but I still remember it, clear as if it wuz yesterday.

It was one of those, 40 degree days in tha shade, an even the roo's weren't movin, cept ta twitch a lazy ear or two, an shake away tha flies, an the dogs are jest layin there lookin' at the roo's too hot ta be bothered chasin' 'em. when, the local Sargent and 'is boys come ta visit, sayin' - they wanted to use up some trainin' rounds in our backyard.

I think they really jest wanted ta sit in the shade of our round porch and drink Ma's ice-cold drinks.

I heard layta that air con down tha stayshon, wuz broken. Funny how small things ken chainge tha way yer life goes ahead.

But the reason they gave us, wuz, - to use the hill behind us like a safety wall- there bein' no way anyone could sneak onta tha range and get shot by accident.

'okay', Ma says, as she hands out glass bottles of colas, nice an wet from tha fridge.,

'but let me boys have a go with them Glocks, bit o fun for em.'

Of course I wanted a go too.

Dunno why, - guns neva really interested me before, 'spose, I jest didn't wanna miss out.

So I waited till there was a quiet moment between all the tin shootin', back slappin' an shit talkin' - an I asked if I could have a try.

'Sure thing girly', seid the Sarge smilin' at me.

I recognised him from school, - his youngest son, Mikey, was in me grade, an his Da's face, all round an cheerful-like, with 'is big round beer belly, wuz jest right for playin Santa at the school Christmas party. Haha, He wuz a good sort, our Sarge.

But, that day, his face wuz shiney red, like a steamed mud crab an instead of pinchers he had a couple of wet hankerchifs and giant sweat marks under his arms. Boy did he stink, I almost fell over, when he, - showed me the different parts of tha gun, an how to hold it properly.

- Some days when I pick up a glock, I kin still smell'em, - ammonia, sweat, whiskey an uld spice -

The gun, that first gun, felt smooth an heavy in me hands, a little bit unreal- , I had a silly moment, wen I wannid ta; pull me hat backwards an be a gangster, but I bit me lip and eld back me, 'yo homey nigga, wat u lookin at's'.

But I couldn' 'elp but giggle a little, though I wuz tryin' ta be serious-like.

The policeman seemed to getit though- ya know, I think he knew me too, but he neva let on - he jest smiled, popped some earmuffs on me noggin', stood back and nodded at me to git started.

Jeez it wuz loud. - I think ya always remember that, tha noise, about ya first time.

An the gun jumped crazy-like in me hands - like it had a life of its own. I took me time, an tha next shot I breathed out slowly, like I heard 'lympic shootas do, - tellin tha gun to calm tha fuck down.

It wirked.

I'd missed with tha first shots but got it - the milk cartin, the third shot.

'Fluke' says one of tha yunga coppas.

I didn't even look at 'em, but I knew it wuz the carrot top - Macca's, he's a fuckwit -- always makin' trouble, chasin otha fellas girls an startin'fights. Dunno how he came ta be a coppa.