Gun lobby NRA moves toward street-level marketing
As Marcus Nowlberg walked down the sidewalk in his hometown of Suburbiaville, Colorado one August evening, little did he know that his life was about to about to change dramatically.
“Hey kid!” a creepy voice yelled out of the alley he was passing. “Wanna make some big money?”
“What’s up?” replied Marcus, a bit frightened. He couldn’t quite make out the middle-aged man who called out to him from the darkness, but he could see that he was wearing a 50’s style fedora and a trench coat. “Oh nuts!” he thought, “Another pervert wanting to flash me!”
“Check this out!” said the man, stepping out of the shadows and opening his coat, hastening Marcus’s worst fears. The streetlight showed his face to resemble those of the 1940’s gangsters from the Indiana Jones movies. Apparently he was going to see another old naked guy show off his Viagra enhanced erection.
Markus was relieved when the opened trench coat revealed instead an impressive array of hand guns and semi-automatic weaponry instead. After his initial astonishment, Marcus thought that to support all that weight, this guy must have a spine on him as strong as that of the nasty lizard thing that chases Sigourney Weaver around in the first Alien movie.
“Wow! That’s really some stuff!”
“Yeah, kid, and that ain’t all of it! How would you like to get yer paws on machinery like this?”
“Cool! That would be sweet!”
“Well here’s what ya gotta do. You know some screwed up kids at school, don’t you? Or some tough nuts who like to fight?”
“Yeah, sure! Everybody does.”
“Well, you just pass some of these beauties on to them and you get $100 to stick in yer pocket. Howzabout that? Think of all the Batman movies you can go see with that money or all the nudie magazines you could buy?”
“Wow is right. So here…” he loads the kid up with a few handguns. “Start out with these. If you can unload these there will be more. But remember — they have to go to screwed up kids and toughies. I don’t want these things goin’ to no glee club people or hunters. I want ‘em to go to punks who will use them right.”
Hiding the guns in his belt and backpack, Markus looks up at the man with a curious expression. “Why are you doing this?”
The big man bent down and talked in a lower tone of voice to avoid being heard. “You see kid, I’m one of the promoters for the National Rifle Association, the NRA. Whenever there is big shooting like what happened at the movie theater in Denver or at Columbine in Littleton, there is a big rush to buy guns ’cause ammo nuts think that there is going to be a big crackdown on selling guns. They go out and buy ’em like crazy. Business goes through the roof. So we figure, the more massacres, the better business is. And you, my friend, git to be in on the action!”
Marcus stopped short. His brain had to run through many side channels before registering exactly what the guy had said. When it finally did fully impact him, he handed the guns back to him.
“What the hell? Don’t you want to make some money?”
“No, thank you. Somehow, in this case, money just isn’t as important. I don’t need it that bad.”
The man’s face seemed to explode like a thrown tomato. “What’s wrong with you kid? Too scared of a little gun? Or are you a pansy? Faggot, faggot, doesn’t have the guts to shoot a maggot! Its kids like you that are ruining America! Afraid to stand up for things! Don’t have any incentive to get ahead. Ah, go on with you! I’ll find someone else. There are plenty of kids who want to make a few bucks. And plenty of nutcases to take the guns from them! I don’t need you…”
Marcus walked on towards home, ignoring the old man’s rants. His shouting voice diminished as the steps drew Marcus further from him. Marcus made a mental point to avoid all men with trench coats from then on.
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