Difference between revisions of "Log:Guns And Cigarettes"

26 April, 2018

Jack and C.B. meet up at the shooting range, finding something they got in common. They have a serious talk that doesn't end in anyone getting shot. Almost like they get along - and agree on the merit of blowing things up when needed.

=============-< << Hold My Beer Inc - Ranges >> >-==============

A mix of outdoor and indoor ranges the area is broken down into several key spaces - archery ranges for those interested in the traditional ranged arts. Past that is the indoor pistol range for when it's quite too hot outside - the indoor spaces air conditioned with custom HVAC systems that draw lead and particulates out of the air and sound dampening that make the firearms firing more reasonable. Doors past this and a booth leads out to the outdoor ranges that compromise both pistol and rifle ranges as well as 'tactical bays' that are 100 feet deep and 50 feet to a side with 20 foot berms that help protect the shooter and allow firearms enthusiasts to practice rapid and full auto fire as well as tactical movement - each tactical bay designed to allow someone to back a vehicle into the bay and unload weapons. There are a few archery ranges as well as rifle ranges out to thousand yards, shotgun areas include clay and skeet. Boards near the booth allow staff to keep track of who is signed into what area.

Maybe it's a surprise Jack calls and asks if C.B. wants to go do some practice shooting at the range. Or maybe he doesn't know a lot of people he could ask to do it, although he's well aware that Franklyn carries a gun on her person. Or maybe he just wants to hang out with someone that is ornery and doesn't talk bullshit.

Either or, he'll pick C.B. up if he needs it, otherwise he'll meet him at the range, having chosen an outside pistol range to practice at. He's dressed in civilian clothing and has left Goblin in the car for now - this area just isn't that convenient for a dog.

He looks semi-scruffy as usual, wearing flannel shirt, jeans, heavy boots and a baseball cap, nondescript and black.

And why does Franklyn carry a gun? Might it have something to do with C.B.? Hmm! It just might. Not that Jack would know that. And, surprisingly enough, C.B. agrees to join Jack, though he drives there in his black 1969 Ford Bronco with the various radical stickers instead of getting a ride. His outfit isn't all that different from Jack's, really, though his baseball cap is decidedly Red Sox.

As he approaches the range, he grunts and gives a nod. He's carrying eye and ear protection -- required by the folks up front -- but hasn't put it on yet. "Afternoon," greets the writer, looking the ranger over, but not making much conversation...yet, anyway.

Checking over his Glock, the only pistol he seem to own or least carry, Jack upnods at C.B and doesn't say anything in the way of greeting. It's enough to nod, far as he's concerned. But his gaze is friendly enough, and he grins a little as if glad to see the other man joining, maybe having had doubts he would.

"Figured we could shoot outside," he says. "We can go in if you prefer."

"Weather's okay," C.B. agrees. And it is. He's got on a beat-up brown leather bomber jacket over his clothes, at any rate. The Glock is eyes with a slight frown. "Official piece?" Meanwhile, he reaches under his coat, where his own pistol is strapped to his side -- a Colt M1911. But he doesn't take out bullets, so that baby must already be loaded.

"We got to do practice shoots every now and then," Jack confirms, "so I'll register this one officially." Picking up his ear protection and putting it on over his head he moves to his range and target. He doesn't wait around for chit chat but gets to it, aiming with both hands and with a steady posture, blam, blam, blam... First few shots go a bit wide, the last ones are mostly centered. There's nothing innovative about his shooting style - typical police stance, good shooting without being spectacular. He'd hit a guy if he needed to.

"You shoot rifles too?" he calls over, after firing off his round.

C.B. follows suit, moving to the lane next to Jack's and putting on his own protection. He has a kind of old-school way of holding the gun that's not much seen lately, and he's a damn good shot, it turns out. Like: gets the target dead on, right in the center of the "heart." Blows the damn thing clear away.

"Yeah, I shoot rifles...prefer shotguns, though," he yells back over at Jack, squinting at the other guy.

Of course, Jack can't help but to sneak a peak at the other shooter, to see how he's doing. He can't even hide how impressed he is. "Fuck," he says, "where did you learn to shoot like that." Well, he half-shouts it, rather. "Can't go wrong with a shotgun," he agrees loudly, and then reloads to shoot another round. "I'll do some rifle shooting later, need to keep that up to speed too."

"Been shooting since I was a kid," C.B. says. "I'm not /always/ that good, but -- " But sometimes, he is. He also reloads, grunting over at Jack. Still not big on conversation, apparently. This shot isn't quite as amazing as the one before, but he still hits the target, this time getting it in the middle of the "face."

Jack's own shooting is average today and he glares at his target, then sets his jaw and tries again. This is what the practicing is for after all, keeping up with it, so he won't miss when it matters. "Impressive either or," he calls, before emptying his clip again into the target after a quick reload. Despite not doing that good today, he's obviously enjoying this, shooting C.B. a grin before he shoots again.

C.B. smirks a little as Jack's shooting improves. "Not bad," he calls over to him. His shot is less spectacular than before, but respectable enough. But he still seems skimpy on conversation. There are probably lots of signs saying you shouldn't smoke out here, but that doesn't stop him from putting his gun down, snicking out a rollie, and lighting up quickly via match.

The ranger squints at his target - he's put every bullet right near the center this time around. He grunts, very content about that - seems he hasn't lost his touch. Or he was lucky. Either or, he pulls his ear protection off for now and walks over to C.B. The smoking has him inspired so he pats his pockets and finds an old beaten up pack that probably was bought weeks ago - but he lights one up too. They're outside, anyway. No big deal, right? "I sort of meant it you know," he begins quietly. "About blowing the place up. Maybe not literally, but I'm wondering if we can get away with doing this without some good old fashioned violence."

C.B. squints over at Jack. "Didn't know you smoked," he mutters, almost approvingly. His faded denim-colored eyes wander over Jack's face, like he's looking for signs of bullshit. "What's wrong with literally?" He taps some ash onto the gruond. "I'm completely in favor of /literally/ blowing the place to smithereens, Jack." Even though he knows damn well his woman wouldn't approve.

"I said /maybe/ not literally. I'm not ruling it out. Just don't know what we're up against, yet." Jack eyes his cigarette, shrugs lazily. "Occasional smoker. I always got a pack on me in case that moment comes up. It's actually a bit of a cop trick," he admits, flashing a grin. "Offer a cigarette, smoke it with a witness, a suspect... I was never very good at it though, that trick, but I picked up the habit of having a pack on me."

He smokes his cigarette with little intensity, clearly not a habitual smoker, just like he claims. "Either or, yeah. If it comes to that, we'll blow it up."

C.B. grunts at the cop trick thing. He just doesn't want to give Jack an inch about that stuff, does he? C.B., on the other hand, is clearly a perpetual smoker, but that's easy enough just talking to him, because you can hear it in his voice and smell it on his clothing all the time. "Why not do it anyway? I could use the practice."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Jack responds dryly, giving him a bit of a Look. "Can we at least agree not to blow it up until we know we won't kill someone innocent?" Apparently, not so worried about killing bad guys. "You're the expert. I only know the basics of explosives." He might be fishing a bit, to see if C.B. /is/ an expert.

Not taking the bait, perhaps, C.B. doesn't further comment on whether or not he's an expert. "I'm not agreeing to shit," he says stubbornly, but that might just be because he's stubborn and contrary, and not really because he wants to kill innocents. Though he finds himself squinting at Jack again as he takes a drag. "What's /really/ your interest in all of this, anyway?"

"Apart from wanting to save someone who clearly doesn't deserve to be experimented on and tortured?" Jack responds. He is quiet for awhile, frowning, looking at C.B. with an unreadable expression. "I just got an issue with abuse of power. The big man, stomping the little man under its heel. Very stereotypical, I know, but sometimes I can do shit about it."

"Oh, /you/ have an issue with that?" C.B. scowls, smokes. "Real good, considering you were a cop." Then he sighs, like he's not actually...trying to pick a fight today, right? Right. Maybe. "So that's it? It's only the moral issues that have you involved? Nothing else?"

"I'm not sure how much I should tell an Alexander." Jack says this with a wry, but also cynical, smile. "Feels like I've already opened up more than I should. Maybe I'll let you know later - but I think both of us enjoy keeping some things secret for now." He points his near finished cigeratte at C.B, but not close - it's not a threatening gesture, more an amused one. "You'd make a great cop. You pulled the cigarette trick on me." He gestures over to his SUV. "Getting the rifle - be right back."

C.B. snorts at the notion of him being an Alexander (well, he is, but doesn't think of himself that way...). Then he says something that might be unexpected: "Yeah, I know I would. I'd make an even better gumshoe." Weird. He hates them, yet he can admit that... "I didn't bring my shotgun," he mutters after him, so he stays there to keep smoking his cigarette.