So Mother’s Against Guns really didn’t start my career as some of the newspapers like to claim. It really wuz those Troll punks that really started me on my way. It was MAG that got me to turn pro and leave the amatuers behind.

After the Trolls had been broken up and the DEA had pretty much clamped down on all the “Dyne” comin’ into Kentucky thanks to “my assistance,” things should have quieted down. I wuz on my way to becomin one of those home-town heroes that take care of their city and let the big heroes handle the Fifth Columns world domination plans and other arch-villian battles. I wuz just patrollin’ the back hills and cities of Kentucky and keepin’ the peace. I think Paw might even have been proud.

It wuz durin’ a visit back in the holler with Mamaw, when the reports that Mother’s Against Guns was creatin’ a city order to ban guns in Louisville. They hoped that the bill would go on to ban them throughout the state. I knew this wuz gonna cause me no end of grief.

I told Mamaw, “If they outlaw guns. Only outlaws will have guns.”

I headed back to Lexington and checked in on the shop. Pat told me we had some picketers in the mornin’ and some news guys had come by. MAG wuz tryin’ to get the law passed in Lexington, too.

I waited for the next morninings protest and sure enough here they came. A van-load of middle-aged ladies pulled up and started bringout signs and started marchin on my doorstep. This wuz a canny foe. I certainly couldn’t just shoot ’em like I wanted to. I decided I’d try to go and state my case.

“So you want to ban the Second Ammendment to the Consitituion of the United States,” I thanked GAWD for my schoolin’. “Isn’t it the first ammendment that lets you protest like this? Do you wnat to ban that one, too?”

Boy, that wuz a mistake I’ll never make again. Never take on a group of Soccer-moms that haven’t had their first cup of coffee. Worse than takin’ on a whole cult of Circle of Thorns.

After my verbal bashing, I retreated to the confines of my store. All wuz not well, and I felt worse than ever. I even thought about hirin’ a lawyer. Hey, I have my weak moments, too. I didn’t do it, I just thought about it.

Thankfully that “superin” up I had made me notice a few little things wrong about the “moms” outside my door. I saw the van had been customized. Customized by someone I’d probably marry. Definitely a woman’s touch, the armor plating matched the sidewall paneling. The bulletproof windows had been tinted with a slight rose-colored shading. The headlights were subtly hinged to allow for some sort of death-dealin’ device to pop out.

As they pulled away I grabbed “Betsy” and followed them at a discrete distance with the NRA Mobile. (Man, do I miss that old Ford.)

They drove around for a few hours and then pulled into a hangar outside the private airport near Eastland Park. Within minutes about a dozen identical vehicles pulled in. Every van wuz filled with an equal number of “moms” and each group wore the exact same outfits. Not that I paid too much attention to their fashion sense. I ain’t that way. I just knew uniforms when I saw them.

Once again a few silenced shots at a few poorly placed guardposts, and I wuz within’ ear shot of the hangar. That’s when I saw the banner flyin’ inside the hangar. I remebered back to my childhood days in front of the old TV watchin’ a very special episode of “True Lives of the Heroes.” The special was on Nemesis. And here wuz his banner flyin’ in my home state. The very state that had seen his defeat at the hands of General Stonewall Jackson. The very audacity of the thing made me angrier than I think I’d ever been.

Sure enough, Nemesis had staged this whole thing. Get the state to ban guns and then they can take it over all the easier. The same dang plan ol’ Hitler and Mussolini had used. Hell, the same plan every dictator ever used. The sad thing wuz it might work this time, too.

The “moms” had all changed into their Jackboots and leather. I had to admit I kind of “dug” the getups. They all started linin’ up for hand-to-hand warmups and basic drills. I do love an orderly group of villians. Makes ’em easier to hit with a wide choke.

I pulled my whole cell-phone, tear-gas start-off that had become my staple. It took me a few minutes to realize most of ’em were wearin’ gas masks. “Betsy” and I had our work cut out for us.

All the hand-to-hand trainin’ in the world won’t save ya from a slug to the chest at 100 yards. All the disciplined drills in Germany won’t save ya from Buckshot up the backside. However, they did have a mess of body armor. Some of ’em even realized they had an armory and started makin’ a run for some guns.

A few well placed Stick Grenades on my part kept that from becomin’ a hazard and I was able to finish off most of the “FemiNazis” real quick like. A few of the higher ranked Nazi Babes started shotuing out some sort of language that didn’t sound like German to me. Everything became real crazy, real fast.

I knew about some of the crazy stuff that supposedly happened in the world. I knew the stories of “The Bench-Leg” that haunted my old holler. I knew about the “Demons” that the Cricle of Thorns were bringin’ forth in Paragon City. I knew about Haints and Spooks and all manners of hellspawn. I just had never seen nothin’ like it. I also assumed, like most folks, that ain’t none of it real.

Boy wuz I wrong. The three “Uber Officers” fall on all fours and start growlin’ and grindin’. I start thinkin’if they ain’t popped no “dyne” what the heck is goin’ on here? They get some bad Shine or maybe someone spiked the punch with some Spaninsh fly?

They sprouted fangs and hair and turned into the biggest wolves I’d ever seen. To make matters worse. The main one turns into some sort of Succubus straight form hell, bat wings and all. I became a believer in the old “Bench-Leg” stories right then and there.

“Betsy” wuzn’t ready for that kind of killin’ and neither wuz I. Wolves wuz jumpin’ all over the place and “She-Bitch from Hell” starts laughin’ and threw some sort of Darkness around me. I got cold. Real cold and felt my arms stiffen up. I froze instantly. I figured, well at least I tore into ’em and got most of ’em takin’ care of.

That’s when this RV rams through the door to the hangar. Out of the door bursts this freakin’ ninja in a karate gi. A real bona-fide ninja. He starts goin’ toe-to-toe with the farkin’ Hell-bitch. He starts goin’ all Bruce Lee on her ass and the whole time he’s chantin’ and glowin’ like some sort of road-flare.

Then some fine lookin’ lady rolls out of the RV and throws and handful marbles at a group of wolf-ladies. The explosion brought a tear to my eye. I had to get me some of those. Then she pulled out a pair of .44 auto-mags with mother o’pearl handles. They were filed down for quick draw action and had been adjusted with some laser carving to give them an uncanny accuracy. “Betsy” would be gettin’ another upgrade if I lived to work on her agian. Then Micro-Gernade Babe started blowin’ the hell out of the wolves. I think the darkness may have screwed up my senses but I could’ve sworn she was firin’ silver slugs from those guns of hers.

Just when I think I’ve got to be drugged and this is my farkin’ hallucination, Scully from the Gawd-Durn X-Files steps out of the RV and flashes a badge. Now I know I’m seein’ thangs.

“This is special agent, Devon Scullie,” she stated as she drew her freakin’ government standard issue service weapon, a Smith and Wesson 1006 9mm. How cliche’. Anyway she went on.

“Stand down now or you will be shot and sent back to the bowels of hell from which you sprang.”

Or something to that effect. Truth is, she never got to finish her schpeal since a couple of wolves jumped her. That’s when the Big Guy jumped out of the RV and went to town on the wolves with a farkin’ silver sledge hammer. I must have been drugged cause I could have sworn he had floppy ears and a big ole’ snout like a hound dawg.

So they mop up the wolves and I’m finally broken free of “She-bitch’s” dark spell. The FBI lady tosses me a clip for “Betsy.” It’s even got her special safety seal I made special for her multi-purpose clips. These guys had done their homework. I saw the flash of silver on the cartridges as I shot off a quick burst that finished off the last of the “FemiNazi WarWolves” as I learned to call them.

So durin’ the mop up, the RV gang pulls me aside. I asked them how they knew about my ammo, how they knew about me, and just about anything else. Oh yeah, I also asked them where I could get some of those wonderful Mirco-Gernades. I think I also asked the babe who made them to marry me. I’m not real sure.

They told me that they belonged to a special branch of the FBI that deals with supernatural and paranormal threats to the good ole’ USA. They usually try to cover things up with a good story and make sure average Joe Civilian ain’t none the wiser the Devil really did go down to Georgia. They also told me that things had changed.

Super-powered beings were becoming common place and super-heroes and super-villans, like those I had grown up wathcin’ were a lot more common now-a-days. They also told me this Bureau 13 that they belonged to neeeded its own Super-Heroes that it could call on for very special assignments.

I asked them where I signed up. They handed my badge right there, post-dated to a week-ago Thursday. Man, wuz I happy.

So here’s how it works. I’m still the old NRA Avenger. I still fight crime from my gun store in King’s Row in Paragon City. I still pay my bills by workin on fancy weapons for other heroes. I still run missions for E.L.I.T.E. , M.A.G.I. , or anything my contacts dig up. Shoot I even do missions for the plain ole’ FBI occasionally.

Every once in awhile my cereal will talk to me, or my shower will write a message on the wall, or I’ll just get a call on my wrist-watch. That’s when I know it’s really important. Yeah I’ve blasted demons and spirits in Faultline. I’ve even faught a couple of more WarWolves on my own time. But the Bureau missions are the ones I’m most proud of.

Remind me to tell ya about some of ’em.

NRA Avenger Origin, Part 2: The Avenger is Born

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