“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” The Constitution of the United States, 2nd amendment.
“You can have my guns when you pry them from my cold, dead hands.” Popularized by the NRA.
Oliver Rearden studied the guns under glass. “What’re you looking for?” asked Jeremy, as he stocked the shelves with ammo behind the counter.
“Assault rifle?”
Jeremy stopped. “You know I can’t sell those here.”
“You had an AK at the gun show.”
“That’s the gun show. I can’t sell you an assault rifle out of my store.”
“But you sell the ammo.”
Jeremy sighed, turned and looked back at Oliver. “Olly, if you go to the gun shows, you have to bring cash.”
“I bought a few things before I got to your table,” he said. “I didn’t have enough money for the AK.”
“What did you buy?”
“An over the shoulder missile launcher.”
“Sweet mother of heaven, Olly!”
Olly looked up, pulling the puppy dog face that had turned cold female hearts over to his side in a heartbeat. “Please?”
“Olly.”
“I’d rather buy it from you than Ernest down the street at Guns ‘n’ Things. I’d rather see that franchise out of business and keep you in business, Jeremy.”
“What part of ‘it’s not legal’ do you not understand?”
“Then sell it to me as a private dealer. You know the range just outside of town. You can sell it to me there.” Olly smiled. “Or come to my house.”
“You’re trying to get me arrested.”
“I’ll show you the rocket launcher.”
Jeremy threw up his hands. “I don’t give a shit about a rocket launcher!”
“It’s a sweet piece of gunnery. Left over from Kuwait, so it’s not that old.” Olly stood up, and started to the door. “My house, around six. I’ll order pizza.” He waved, and left the store.
“Kid’s gonna get me fucking arrested,” he said, as he went downstairs to pack the AK in a box.
~~~~~~~~~~
Jeremy pulled up to the quiet little house at the end of a dead-end street. He had the address because of Olly’s constant purchases from him. Olly was one of the few people in town that kept him in business, so he actually hadn’t wanted to refuse to sell Olly the AK. This was off the books, on the “gun show” books, with a fudged date and a whited-out entry. Gun shows didn’t need the background checks – if you had the cash, you walked out with a lethal weapon. And, as Olly had proven, there were a lot of unusual items for sale.
He walked up to the small house and rang the doorbell. Lights went on all around him, on the porch, on the lawn, on the stairs. There was a “Beware of Dog” sign on the side of the porch. He hefted the box from one arm to the other as the heavy steel door opened. “Hello,” said Oliver. “Come on in.” He held the door open for him. Olly let him into the house.
“Where’s your dog?”
“I don’t have one. Keeps the thieves away. You can set it down on the couch. Can I get you a beer?”
“No, thanks, I’m heading home,” he said.
Olly came back, holding a can of Coors. Olly set the can of beer down on the nightstand, then opened the box. “Oh, how pretty.” He lifted it up out of the box, and hefted its weight, keeping the muzzle pointed away and to the floor. “Want to keep the box?”
“If you don’t mind. I can use it for something else.”
He cocked the gun, but didn’t dry fire it. Jeremy knew Olly knew better. “Come on downstairs.”
Olly brought him over to the kitchen, and then to another steel door. He undid the deadbolt, opened the door, and ducked his hand just inside. Probably shutting off an alarm, Jeremy thought, as he then threw the door open wide. “After you.”
He went down into the cellar, which was paneled in cedar. The stairs ended at a wall, and he went right, following Olly. There was a large door with a combination lock on it, and Olly spun the lock, getting it open. Olly stepped inside, did something, and said, “Come on in.”
Jeremy went around the door and stepped into a bunker.
There was food, clothing, water, all stacked against the wall. A generator with solar panels was packed in. Olly walked down the length of the cellar to the other end, and flipped a light switch.
Olly had more guns than Jeremy had in his shop. There was even an “Anti-aircraft gun?” Jeremy asked, stunned.
“Had to bring it down in pieces,” he said, grinning.
There were mortars. Rifles. Pistols. Assault rifles. Fifty-caliber pistols. Grenade launchers. Every gun he could think of, and more.
“You’ve got an arsenal down here.”
“Yep,” said Olly. “Those tree-hugging liberals are never going to take my right away.”
Then Jeremy saw a red and blue uniform. He walked up to it. Spandex. “You don’t.” He pointed to the uniform.
“I do. In Millennium City.”
“That’s a hundred miles from here.”
Olly shrugged. “An hour and a half’s drive. Two hours in bad weather.”
“I never knew,” said Jeremy. “You do hero things.”
“That’s why it’s perfectly legal to have this.” He raised the AK and nestled it in a niche that seemed already made for it. “Want to be my sidekick?”
Jeremy put his hands up. “No, thank you!”
“I do hope,” Olly said, as he guided Jeremy back out, “That you won’t tell anyone.”
“No. But I’ll give you a discount from now on when you show me your hero card.”