Friday, September 7, 2012

Where Dream and Day Untie

So, I had a dream last night. It was like one of those self-defense daydreams, wherein a scenario is played out in your head, only you don't have the advantage of being in control of the variables. Lemme 'splain.

So, I was hanging out with a buddy in his driveway. I had been shooting recently, and maybe we were getting home from the range. For whatever reason, we were standing by his car. These two dudes walked up. Their descriptions would be nearly identical. They were both pretty tall, at probably around 6' 1" or so. Both darker-skinned with features that suggested Middle-Eastern decent; not quite Indian dark. Both with pants and button-down casual shirts. Nothing about their description set off any red flags, but the looks on their faces as they stopped walking a straight line on the sidewalk and turned towards us put them squarely in my OODA loop. I felt the adrenaline dump immediately, and my buddy and I started to casually separate from each other. Sure enough, one followed him, the other followed me.

I decided this was Not Good.

They tried to play hip, like they were asking about the car or something. It wasn't a clunker by any stretch, but it wasn't quite a hot-rod, either (think bone-stock 350Z or something; I'm not really sure other than it was dark green and low to the ground). I wasn't buying it. I especially wasn't buying it when my guy never stopped walking towards me, only changed his pace some. After I changed directions from crab-stepping left to right and he continued to follow, I dropped my bowling shirt and turned my right hip away from him. He did not see my holstered Beretta.

I finally quit backing up and stood my ground. He closed the distance and I put my arm forward. It was a good decision, because I did it so smoothly it must have been an instinctual reaction to his hand coming towards me. He wasn't violent (yet), but he was definitely grabbing for me. My hand intercepted his forearm and he gently tried to move to my right. It quickly became apparent that I was stronger than him, so I didn't need to worry about the arm I was holding becoming an issue, but I definitely saw his left arm drop and tense up. I did the strangest thing at that point. I actually asked him, "Are you about to hit me?" To which he gave the least-likely reply I could have imagined. He said, simply, "Yes." Everything went slow-mo.

I already had my hand on the grip of my still-undetected pistol at that point, so clearing leather happened in the fraction of a fraction of a second. I was far too close for any kind of extension, so I kept my elbow bent but strong, pointed the (now detected and attitude-changing) polymer Beretta squarely at his chest, and squeezed the trigger. I was calm, collected, and deliberate.

Even, surprisingly, after I heard a click instead of a bang. Fuck.

I used my weight (dude was tall, but skinny) to push him back as hard as I was willing to push without risking falling with him and hoped to cause him to fall backwards, but he was a bit too sure-footed and only stumbled. Still, it gave me all the time I figured I'd need to rack it and dump the shitty round that was inevitably blocking me from punting this asshole into the next life. I racked the slide, got a second hand up to stabilize a much-improved grip, and squeezed again. Click. FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK...

This was where things went seriously pear-shaped, because Sumdood went from being afraid of the imminent ballistic body-piercing to not really being worried about being shot by what he considered a clearly defective pistol. Advantage Sumdood, because he advanced as I ripped the magazine out (thank God for spare mags!) only to see the next round in the stack probably a full inch below the feed lips as it fell from the hand that was already moving to the mag pouch on the other side of my belt. In my vision, I saw the feet of Sumdood coming toward me...

...And like a movie trailer, that's where things ended: right at the climax of the action. I had just a moment to reflect on what I decided was the shitty ammo I for no reason has left in the mag causing the follower to stick at the bottom (total bullshit, I know, but that's the thought I had in the blackness). I don't know if I made it to the other 17 rounds of Federal Hydra-shok that I knew was waiting for me, or if Sumdood closed the gap and changed the game before I could. I just new that I was still very calm.

Until I woke up, terrified.



  1. I think it's time to check your mags and maybe swap them out for new ones.

  2. Welcome to every cop's nightmare. I do not mean that as sarcasim. Every cop I have worked with, talked to, or shared my stories with, has had this same type of dream, or really close to it, at one time or another. I posted it on We The Armed, the responses were there same. Yeah, a little different, but you nailed it. Relax, they'll get worse before they get better.

  3. What an interesting dream you have where you put everything in details. And it's always a great thing that you are the star of your dream.

  4. All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.


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