This story may look familiar as I published it on my blog back in 2010. It's a satire, but many readers enjoyed it. I will have The Burnout ready shortly, but in the meantime, here's some light reading.
Too bad, So sad
IT happened about halfway through my standard Thursday night dinner - two McDonald Quarter Pounders, two large fries and a six pack of Miller's Genuine Draft. That ego maniac president came on and stated the obvious - the US was broke. There would be no more welfare, social security or food stamps. In an effort to collect outstanding debts, the UN would be landing about a half a million blue hats tonight at airports around the country. Then he said good night and good luck and he walked off the screen.
I didn't wait to hear what happened next. I turned off the set and threw the remote across the room. It was a matter of time before law and order broke down and things went crazy. Good thing I was as prepped as best as I could be. I looked around at the guns I had acquired over the past three years. They were scattered through out the living room, kitchen and dining room (as well as in my bed room) where they would be handy for just in case. Like today.
My jaw was still on the living room floor taking in all that had happened when I heard a crash outside. Looking out the window, sure enough its a couple of the the gang banger lowlife neighbors next door knocking over my trashcans on their way to pay me a visit. Well, maybe they were just walking by my house, but it's the end of the world and better safe than sorry. My guess is they figure with no welfare check coming from taxpayers LIKE ME, they plan on making a withdraw direct.
Not wasting time, I choose the right tool for the job from my armory. I pick my Mossberg 590 with extended tube, elastic side saddle, sythetic stock and muzzle break. It was loaded with 6 00 bucks I had picked up from one of the ammo sites I read about online.
After racking a fresh shell in the pipe, I stepped out on the porch in a move I had rehearsed in my mind a dozen times "Come and get it you pieces of scum!" I yelled and let Gang Banger number one have it front and center. GB number two behind him reaches for something in his baggy pants and that give me time to rack shell two into place with his name on it. "Kaboom!", the Mossberg does it's job and makes me a happy customer. You should have seen the look on those guys faces.
I hustled down to the waiting bodies and turn them over looking for "war booty". Sure enough, number one has a Glock 21 in his pants along with a half dozen spare mags (no wonder his pants were failing down!). Banger two has a matching Glock with four mags and surprise - a wad of twenties and fifties. Drug money no doubt. It's mine for now and will go a long way on some last minute preps.
This was just like those end of the world stories online. I discovered them a few years back and read them every chance I get. I never bothered with buying a computer when I could use the one in the break room at work for free. I just sneak out a few minutes early for lunch and hog it for the whole hour before anyone else can get claim it. Too bad, so sad for them.
I take my spoils and decide its time to bug out of dodge! I head for the house and grab my left over Quarter Pounder and cram half in my mouth. Gonna need some fuel to get this job done!
I start with my guns and ammo. I have more than a dozen choice pieces and thousands of rounds for each stored in .50 caliber ammo cans. The cans line my living room wall and I frequently like to get all my guns out and line them up in front of the ammo cans and just look at them. Its really cool.
Forty five minutes later and I have only managed to get the ammo into the bed of my Ford Extended Crew Cab Four by Four. I had to take two breaks and the same number of Cokes to keep the ole engine running.
By the way, who am I? My name is Bob Kirgus. I am 45, divorced and living the life on my own in a two bedroom house in a town not much different than yours. I work as foreman down at United Mail Service, you know, the guys in the red and yellow trucks. I am the local trouble maker on the job and have a great time being the "difficult one" my boss refers to at our team meetings. Ha ha! Wonder how HE'S doing with all this? Bet he has his head in some three ring manual trying to figure out the answer to S-H-T-F. Ha!
Right now, I got to get the truck loaded with food and ammo and head for the hills. I imagine this place is going to go up like a road flare once the "Don't Haves" realize there's no more free lunch.
I start on the guns and try to decide the best choices for the ride. The Mossberg for sure. And my Colt 1911A, parkerized, with laser sites and extended custom made Beaver mags and 185gr rounds. But should I include my loaded McMillian TAC-50 (cashed out my 401K for that one!) with flash suppresor in the front seat as well? What if I run across a road block like in those stories? What about my Main Battle Rifle? My loaded Springfield M1A1 Match with synthetic stock and 32 twenty round magazines loaded with Lake City (purchased after my divorce and with the proceeds from the sale of our home, Whoo-Hoo!).
By now, its been two hours since the Big Mouth's announcement and its getting late. I end up throwing all the guns in the front and back seat of the Ford and decide to play it by ear. Then I load up all the canned goods, (good stuff like Hormel chili, Spam, canned tamales, and so on) from the kitchen and grab the rest of my Cokes and Mountain Dew from the pantry. I can't decide whether to take the buckets of sugar, flour and baking stuff I planned on learning to use. In the end I just leave them and the pots and pans and whatever for the looters.
After putting the food in the truck bed, I change into my bug out clothes. A pair of jeans. t-shirt, suspenders (damn gut!), my favorite team's ball cap, photographer vest and fanny pack. I lace up my boots (with a break to catch my breath between each boot).
If you are wondering, my vest is loaded with spare mags for my Raven .25 back up gun, a dozen protein bars, two bic lighters, a compass, notebook, pen, 50" of paracord, my Streamlight tactical flashlight, spare batteries, a half dozen 12 guage slugs and buckshot, p38 can opener, rain poncho and a Cold Steel folder.
Yeah, the vest is heavy and it looks dorky, but I got enough stuff here to save my backside in ANY situation. My fanny pack has some of the same stuff plus a roll of Charmin, flattened and stored in a two gallon Ziploc bag and some contractor trash bags.
I stuff my big blue Samsonite suitcase with jeans, t-shits and underwear and haul out for the front of the house. Darnit! I forgot my toothbrush, razor and bathroom stuff. Oh well, I can get a tooth brush on the road and I might as well grow a beard. In a few weeks the thin veneer of civilization with its shaving, alimony and red and yellow United Mail Service uniforms will be HISTORY, baby!
I head out the door, but not before throwing the house keys on the couch. I won't need this place anymore! Take that Mr. Banker!
I snag my four NATO jerry cans from the garage and heave them into the back of the truck bed. Two are empty so I better grab some more fuel before I leave town. I crank up that bad boy and squeal out of the driveway and down the street.
But that has to wait because no sooner had I get around the corner when I run into trouble. Again.
A fruity looking Volvo with a "Hug the Planet" sticker on the bumper is stopped in the middle of the street. Two more gang bangers have pulled the occupants (Mr and Mrs Flower Power) out and are giving them the going over. I slam on the brakes, step out and introduce them to Mr. Springfield M1A. Bam bam bam! The bangers go down and unfortunately, Mr Flower Power took one to the head in the rush. Adrenaline I guess. Not my fault.
Mrs Flower Power, is stunned. Probably the new found respect and admiration she has for a REAL MAN like me. But its not for long. Banger on the ground is still alive and puts a nine into her back. I snap off three shots into the ground from my Springfield before number four finds the mark. No more outings for that upstanding youth as the missed rounds whine off into the night air.
Again, I help myself the leftovers. This time I end up with a Taurus nine millimeter Barretta clone and a Smith and Wesson .38 with a five inch barrel. I didn't know bangers went for classics! Some more ammo and spending money came with the deal as well. Too bad for the Flower Powers, but the tough new world probably won't come with lattes. Ha! Too bad, so sad.
I get back on the road and head for the gas station and get another dose of bad news. There is a line around the block for the four pumps. No surprise, but I don't have time to wait.
I nose the Ford in between two cars already at the pumps, a Honda and a Toyota Prius, and get out with my 1911A. I fire a round into the air and shout "We can do things my way or the hard way! What's it going to be?". Some gal screams and a guy tears away from his car for the safety of the ladies room, so I start filling my truck up.
Aboo or Habib who runs the place comes out and demands cash or no gas. No problem and I start peeling Jacksons and Grants off the bangers flash wad and Mr MidEast's eyes light up like he was in paradise and is meeting his 50 virgins. After twenty minutes (hey, I got three tanks on the truck and two of the jerry cans to fill), I get back on the road.
I got a bad case of indigestion coming on. Must have been that last burger. And my shoulder is really hurting from firing the Springfield. I wish I would have spent more time at the range but that used up ammo. I liked keeping my ammo all together and wanted as much as possible when the baloon went up. Oh well.
Nothing between me and the wilderness but.. hey, the Albertsons grocery store has some activity so I pull in. Might as well grab some spare grub while the stores are still open. Too bad though. Folks are streaming in and out with full carts. The only problem is those coming out are being relieved of their goods by those outside. Time for backup plan two! I figured this out after lunch one day reading those online stories.
I pull around back and see the loading door is open. I back the Ford up and grab my Colt Python .357 with chrome finish and Pachmeyer grips, six spare speed loaders and my 4 battery Monster Maglight. In the back door and.. wonders of wonders. Several pallets of Spam, chili, beef stew, tamales and lots of Cokes and Mountain Dew are waiting just inside the door.
I pull my Cold Steel boot knife and hack into the plastic wrap on the pallets. Next I grab a dolly and start loading cases and taking them to the Ford. About ten minutes later (and a break for the old man. This is a lot of work!), I hear someone walking into the back room. Some guy with a crew cut and white apron on comes in and asks "Hey! What are you doing?".
Might be trouble so I level the Python at him and tell him he can get in the way and in the grave or turn around and act like he saw nothing. Crew Cut wets his pants right there and starts blubbering about his mom, his auntie, some guy he's pals with named Bruce and his little dog at home and a whole bunch of other stuff. I don't have time for this so I put a round into a big stack of Depends diaper cartons to get his attention. Well ironically, that makes Crew Cut take a dump in his pants and fall on the ground babbling and bawling.
I hear feet and voices coming from the store, so I make my exit. The truck is pretty loaded down with my food from home, ammo, guns and now several cases of canned food, so it's probably best. Anyway, it was starting to stink in there.
My chest is really burning with indigestion now. It feels like theres a lead weight on it. I gotta grab some Tums or something. You never read about that happening in those adventure stories.
Now, I am on the road and heading out of town, but sure enough, I hit a road block. Well, it looked like one to me. Two cars are plowed into each other and blocking most of the road. There is some lady yelling at this old guy who looks like he's drunk. It's gotta be a trap so I better be careful.
I grab my Mossberg again, but figure its time for my FAL to get in on the action instead. I shove a 30 rounder of South African surplus in my European wonder weapon and grab a bandoleer of 16 more mags from the back set and try to step out of the cab in one quick move. But my gut hits the steering wheel and I have to raise it up to get out. The bandoleer is in my left hand so I throw it on the dash when drunk guy pounds on the passenger window.
I jumped about ten feet when that happens and I break some seriously loud wind. But that wasn't loudest thing. The FAL goes off in my right hand and takes out the whole passenger window and most of Drunk Guy's face.
Sheet! I hadn't meant to do that. I can't remember if the safety was on or not. The lady in the street goes into hysterics right then and there and won't stop screeching. No time to waste. I am sweating like a pig and my heart is going a million miles an hour. I start the truck up and back up. I put it in forward and head to the right and around the wreck in front of me. I think I rolled over the drunk guy at that point but was too amped up to think about it, I just went over the curb, grass and back onto the road leaving that screaming lady in the middle of the street.
I hope she didn't get my license plate and that had me shaking bad. I wish I had a beer or something. Damn my chest hurts. But you know what? The poop has hit the fan and the cops are going to be too busy taking care of their own families to worry about me! Too bad so sad. The guy was probably some rich banker getting drunk because his house of fiat money had collapsed. I bet he was going to hitch a ride or demand my truck. Jerk. Probably deserved it.
I was about to get on the interstate when I saw that blue and white sign calling my name - Super WalMart. I knew I needed a toothbrush and maybe a few other things. I would be living on the road and in the wilderness now and there is no better place for a few last minute preps than Wally World!
Sure enough, there was a mob going in and out, but I didn't let that stop me. I pulled around back again and went in accompanied by my good buddies, Mr Mossberg and Mrs Colt and Python. I went through the double doors in the store room into the store fully intending on heading for the pharmacy and personal items when I saw the sporting goods section was right in front of me.
Someone left the cart for a second so I tossed their stuff on the floor and snagged it. I grabbed all the twelve gauge bird shot they had on the shelf and then started loading up camping gear like lanterns, a sleeping bag, a tent, a bunch of that freeze dried food and one of those camping toilets. I was about to get some fishing stuff when I saw the ammo cabinet open.
I was deciding between Federal and Core-Lokt 30.06 when some big mouth comes up and tells me to get out of his way cause needs all the .40 caliber in the cabinet. He's got a Smith and Wesson shoved in his fancy dress pants and completely ignores my Colt in the drop leg holster, my Python in the shoulder holster and my Mossie hanging over my back. I ignore them too and went for my Raven .25 in my vest pocket.
I pointed the tiny, yet lethal weapon in his face and tell him "I don't like hoarders or fancy pants like you who forgot their manners". Fancy Pants laughs at the Raven and says "Where did you get that? From the toy department?".
I was ticked and I forgot all the firearms training I had read online. I pulled the trigger and could have shot the guy, but forgot the safety was on. Fancy Pants sneers at me and goes for his .40 but was too jazzed up. The gun went off in his pants and shot his.. well you know what off or close to it.
This big blood stain appears on the guys's pants and he starts to freak. He reaches for me and grabs a hold of my vest and kind of falls on me. Well everyone's freaking cause his gun went off and I kind of fell backwards and this guy lands on top of me. He's getting all white and screeching in pain. I try and flip him off but between the Mossberg on my back and my big fat stomach, I am having a hard time sitting up.
I start freaking out myself having this dying guy on top of me so I start wiggling around on the floor like Curly in the Stooges until he falls to my right side. After that, I can't get up fast enough and get away from this place. I push my cart for the back and forget all about the ammo in the cabinet and everything else I missed including a toothbrush.
I practically run for the loading dock and throw everything into the back of the truck, which by now is riding low in the springs. I add my weight to the load and peel out for the interstate. This is not the way things are supposed to be going. What is the deal with all these other people? In the stories, everyone goes into Walmart and loads up two or three carts and makes a break for it. Sheesh. That guy's blood is on me.
I get on the interstate and for the FIRST time I catch a break. Traffic west bound is light. My plan is to head to a state park about an hour outside of town and set up a camp hidden far back in the woods off a fire road I found last year. From there I will monitor the radio and do some foraging on the interstate once things quiet down. I dig around in the console and find a Mountain Dew and slam it one big long gulp. I gotta get that sick taste out of my mouth.
I try to put that guys face out of my mind but when I do, I think about that drunk guy at the window. The window is still blown out and some of his blood and stuff is on the door frame. I gotta pull over and get this cleaned up but first let me make some tracks away from town.
Just then, Lady Luck stepped out and Murphy hopped aboard. I felt a thump under the truck and then it starts to ride slightly to the right. Great. I got a blowout. I hope its not one of the inside tires. Those are a real killer to change. In fact last time, I took it to the dealership to change it because I couldn't figure that out.
I pull to the side of the dark interstate and slowly get out. My back is killing me from all the heavy lifting and that scuffle in the Walmart. And this extra weight I packed on since my divorce can't help, but that's the ex's fault. Women, sheesh.
I stagger around the back of the truck and was relieved to see it was the outside tire. Then the fun begins, getting the spare and tools out. I have my Maglight for light, but wish I had something brighter. Oh well. This shouldn't take long.
About fifteen minutes later I managed to get the spare down from the carrier under the bed when headlights illuminated the back of my truck. Swell. Might be trouble so I go for the passenger door and retrieve an adequate response. I pulled out my Ruger Mini 14 Ranch Rifle with the nickel finish and forty round jungle magazine; FMJ on top, hollow point on bottom. Say hi to my death stick you freaks!
The car behind me is some sort of low rider Pontiac those bangers love to ride around in. Two baggy pants step out of the car and before they can lay some ebonics on me, I raise my Mini 14 and tell them to reach for the sky. Too bad, one of them goes for the handgun in the front of his low rider pants.
Pow, pow, pow! I start unloading the Mini on the driver and then swept across to the passenger side. Then something went wrong. My left arm felt sort of numb, like it was plunged in ice water or something.
It must have affected my shooting because I hit the passenger low, in his upper leg and crotch. Sure, it dropped him like any other fella, but it definately was not center mass like those online stories tell you to hit. With my arm rapidly going number, I swept the rifle one more time across the Pontiac's windshield in case another bad guy or two are hiding in the backseat.
The magazine hit empty and the bolt slid back so I tried to pull the spent mag with my right hand and hold the Mini by the upper. No such luck as my left hand couldn't hold a feather in its current state so the rifle clattered to the ground in front of me.
Maybe it was the sight of my Ruger hitting the ground with a finish marring fall that made me feel really nauseous suddenly. It didn't help that my vision was blurring and rapidly going black. I staggered towards the open Pontiac in order to check out the car and pick up the thugs guns and other goodies. I barely made it to the open door when I collapsed to my knees.
I was coherent long enough to look inside and see a small person, a kid no more than ten or eleven, clearly dead and covered with blood in the back seat. I must have hit him when I fired blindly into the car. Bummer.
But it did not matter much. I fell backwards and felt my head hit the ground with a thud. My body seemed to cease working and my bowels let go. Nasty. At that moment I realized what was happening; massive coronary. The stress, the exertion, the extra seventy five pounds I packed on with beer and junk food since the divorce finally caught up with me. Three years of sitting on my fat butt watching tv, cramming garbage in my face dreaming about the end of the world. Too bad, so sad. For me.
The last thing I remember seeing was one of the gang members pistol lying in the ground not six inches from my face. A Desert Eagle. Damn. I always wanted one of those. Then nothing.
The Suburban pulling the trailer coasted to stop next to the Ford pickup and Pontiac on the shoulder. A tall, lean man steps from the drivers side and cautiously walks around the front of the Chevy and looks over the scene. Three dead guys on the ground, one dead kid in the car. What looked like a Ruger Mini 14 lay next to the truck and at least one semi auto handgun near one of the victims.
A young man, high school age and clearly quarterback material joins the man on the side of the road.
"What happeend Dad?" the younger of the two asks.
"Looks like the fat guy had a flat and was planning on robbing these people in the car. He ended up shooting all of them but then was shot in the end. Look at all the blood on his pants and that vest."
"Check out the truck dad! Look at all those guns in there!".
"This must be the guy they were talking about on the radio a few minutes ago. Driving around shooting up the town. Things are bad enough there and now him".
"Should we just leave him here?"
"Him, yes, son. The guns and the ammo, no. Don't touch the guns he's wearing or the rifle on the ground. But the rest of them, except for that FAL, can go in the trailer. The ammo too".
"Why not the FAL, dad? And isn't that stealing?"
"There are some spent .308 rounds in the front seat, son. I bet he shot a few folks with that rifle and I don't want anything to do with it. As for the rest, tonight showed me what happens when things go south in a hurry. We can't take any chances that some other goon like this one won't take the rest of these guns and kill some other folks. I know. It doesn't make sense, but trust me on this one".
The two men quickly moved the ammo cans and guns to the trailer and locked it up. A voice called from the front seat of the Suburban.
"Honey the news is on again!"
In Washington, the Vice President was sworn in at eight o'clock local time only minutes after the President suffered what experts are calling a complete mental breakdown. At seven PM this evening, the President appeared on national television declaring economic collapse and pending military invasion by United Nations forces. Experts are speculating this might have been caused by the President's recent re-election loss and the economic problems which have plagued his administration and the country the past four years. The now former President was taken to Andrews Air Force base for observation. President elect Paul said the nation's thoughts were with the former President and his family during this trying time... In local news, police have managed to stabilize the sudden outbreaks of unrest and violence which flared briefly after the President's inflammatory announcement...
"Hey dad. Did you want to get all those canned goods from that pick up?" said the teen pointing at the huge pile of canned Spam, tamles and chili in the back of the truck.
"Are you kidding? That stuff will kill you" said the father.