He peered at it. "I don't think there are points outside the circle. I'm going to move the target closer. I think the sights are messed up on this gun." He pulled the lever and the paper target bent forward and hurried towards us like a carnival ghost on a clothesline.
Trevor's fifth and sixth shots missed.
"Where's the crouch button?" Peter joked during his turn. His first shot hit nearer to the center of the circle than any of us would get. His second shot strayed out towards the right side of the page. The rest of his shots missed.
"Right click to call up iron sights," Mike told him.
"You're limp wristing it," Trevor noted.
"Doug's missing out," Peter said, putting the gun down and stepping aside to let Mike take the booth. Doug was one of the three guys who flaked.
"You go ahead," Mike said to me. In high school, he was always the last one to jump off a high cliff at the rock quarry.
It's pretty much impossible to describe that first shot, just like it's impossible to describe the first time you had sex or the first time you were drunk or the only time you stepped out of an airplane when your girlfriend bought you that skydiving jump for your birthday. You're certainly not thinking about Rainbow Six: Vegas or Heat. Instead, odd uncontrollable things swim up into your head and insist you think about them. You think about what it must be like to be a cop. You think about what it must be like in Iraq. You think about the prospect of a little kid finding one. You think about people who've shot themselves in the head, in the mouth, or against the right temple. You think about how this could stop anyone from doing anything you didn't want them to do. You think about justice and power and crime and punishment and retribution and suicide, even if none of these words occurs to you. A new universe of implication is born from your first shot.
But the bang and kick sweep thoughts from your head soon enough. And then you're thinking about Rainbow Six and how cool it would be to fire guns akimbo, or to jump while firing. We're only men for so long once you put a gun in our hands. The boys come out soon enough. I only hit the paper target three times, but each shot is in pretty much in the same place.
"That's some nice, uh, shot dispersion," Trevor says, nodding at my paper target. "But you were still limp wristing it."