Shotgun story

Three long decades, and three different owners. That’s what I’ve been through. I was originally invented for the Vietnam war, and I have seen unspeakable horrors in my time overseas. But my owner then, a soldier in the 207^th armoured division, was killed following an attack by a gang back in California only days after he returned from the war. It’s ironic really, just after he stops his killing he is killed, when he wants to return home and see his family. But he was a good owner really, he took care of me and wasn’t a mindless killer like some of the soldiers I saw over there, or the colonel from apocalypse now.

Then after he was dead they took me into the peace project where people hand in their guns and receive compensation in return, but that is only the good half of it. It is what happens afterwards that is the real story: they take the guns to a metal working factory and melt them down for scrap metal. I was terrified when I saw the conveyor belt dumping guns into the molten iron, I thought that this was the end, that this is where I would die; I would never see my family again.

But then he came. He talked to the owners of the factory, then the manager came out and shouted: “Stop the conveyor belts. Take off all the SPAS-12 shotguns.” Wait, that’s me! I thought to myself, I’m saved! I am going to live on. They gathered all of us together and took us to a van, but we were the only survivors.

The man who had come was wearing a strange uniform I thought, then he turned so I could see it and I realised it was a police uniform, and not just any police uniform, he was a S.W.A.T. officer. So that is what he wanted us for I thought. He took us to the L.A. FBI headquarters and started delivering us to his squad. This is one of the most important moments of my life, whoever picks me will be my owner for the rest of my life, I thought.

But no-one was picking me. No! What is happening? I screamed to myself. Why is no-one picking me? But just then the officer picked me up and said, "This one is mine." Oh thank god, I thought, and it’s even better than I thought, I am now an officer's gun. “These are SPAS-12s. They are going to come in very useful, but use them carefully because they don’t have much range so get close to your targets, OK?” The officer told his squad. “Yes Sir,” they all replied.

But I was not with him for very long either - he was killed in a botched drug raid, the dealer had set a trap and the squad was ambushed with the poisonous residue of the meth they were cooking. The policemen were all killed and the gang took me and the other guns. There was no point in carrying on - I wish I could have just ended it there, but I cannot pull my own trigger. Now to this day we are used in turf wars and gang fights and my life is hardly worth living. I am onlyused to kill innocent civilians and for robberies and home invasions. So now you know about my life, you’ve got to help me, I can’t continue like this, I need to kill myself but I can’t, someone has to pull the trigger for me. I need your help.

by Eoin Kehoe