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4 Saddest Fates That Befell My Guns, Officer




Here are the stories I’ll tell if they get around to the “Molon Labe” part…

“Molon Labe,” of course, means “Come and Get Them” in Greek, and it’s a taunt we gun owners like to repeat to those who wish we weren’t gun owners. Fact is, most of us haven’t really spent much time thinking about what a “come and get them” scenario would look like. Most of us, that is, except Yours Truly. As a dedicated Chairborne Ranger, I have spent many an hour meditating on the subject (usually in a seated position, while in the smallest room in my home).

For most gun owners, of course, the best way to keep your guns from being confiscated is to simply keep your mouth shut about owning them. As a gun writer, that’s not an option for me…and maybe someday it won’t be for you either. That’s why I’m sharing my handy-dandy list of very sad stories about what happened to my guns, Officer.

Mossberg in a Bottle

It was a beautiful day at the beach. The sight of me in my Speedo had been just too overwhelming for the crowds, so I had the shore all to myself. Suddenly, my wondering eyes detected a bright, shiny bottle floating on the waves. Nestled sweetly inside the bottle, like Baby Moses in a basket, a Mossberg Shockwave 12-gauge. Not knowing what to make of this mysterious gift from the sea, I took the Shockwave home, gave it my name, and raised it as my own.

Then, one bright sunny morning, I took my Mossberg with me on a deep-sea fishing expedition. I had just hooked a sturgeon the size of an SUV and was battling it in a Hemingway-esque struggle of man versus fish. The mighty sea monster, with a terrible tug, dragged boat, gun, and Munson under the waves. I survived, but my precious Mossberg? Gone on to another man on some other strange shores, I hope. Officer.

No, you can’t go visit him on the farm. Because reasons.

FN Farm

One fine morning I woke to discover that Santa had deposited a fine Fabrique Nationale SCAR under my tree. All of the above was very strange, because a) It was not Christmas; b) I do not have a tree inside my home; and c) I haven’t believed in Santa for at least five, probably ten years. However, it absolutely must have been Santa because…well, I did say it was an FN SCAR, didn’t I? (Those things were scarce as hen’s teeth before 2020 hit.)

My FN SCAR and I had many wonderful adventures together. However, it did chew up both my targets and the couch cushions. And the neighbors complained a lot about all the PING! and PA-WHING! and BOOOMing we made together. And so it was that one fine morning not much later, I woke up to discover that my FN SCAR had gone to live on a wonderful farm. Where neither you nor I can visit…Officer.

Now you know what Sumdood looks like.

Sumdood and the Smith

Ever met Sumdood? Here, have an introduction. Sumdood is pretty famous around these parts, and he’s particularly important to me. That’s because some years ago, I had a wild encounter with him. I was sitting on my front porch, sipping skim milk and reading the Bible, when Sumdood just walked up to me. “Here, Trace,” he said, “have a nice Smith & Wesson M&P Shield. My treat.”

“Wow, Sumdood,” I stuttered. “This is so nice of you! However shall I thank you?” But by the time I finished my sentence, he had mysteriously vanished into thin air in the way that only Sumdood can.

Some months later, while I was once again sitting on the front porch sipping skim milk and reading the Bible, Sumdood came back. This time, he wasn’t in such a giving mood. He pushed me down, stole my lunch money, and made off with that Smith. That’s his nature: Sumdood giveth and Sumdood taketh away. No, I don’t remember what he looked like, OFFICER.

The Pillow Pistol

As I mentioned earlier, I don’t believe in Santa Claus…but I do believe in the Hairline Fairy. You see, every night the Hairline Fairy shows up and takes just a few hairs from my pillow. He’s been doing it for a very long time, as you can tell by the state of my hairline. By the time I had a Friar Tuck tonsure, that fairy had collected enough to leave a present under my pillow in exchange for my precious, long-gone locks: a Desert Eagle chambered in .50. (Suck it, Tooth Fairy!)

Sadly, the Hairline Fairy seems to have some rules I didn’t know about. If I’d known that getting hair plugs would not only make it look like I’m farming forehead pubes, but that it would also break my Desert Eagle contract, I never would have done it. The Hairline Fairy came back and took both my Desert Eagle and my pillow. I’m pretty sure that they are both now being marketed as Good Pillows, and whoever is laying his weary head on them is probably a very happy man. You should go find him, Officer.

So that’s what happened to my guns. What tragic fate befell your guns, readers? Tell us in the comments!


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