I’ve been meaning to get myself a gun. Every Tomas, Didier and Henri out here has one. No, actually two guns, I’ll need two guns, one a sniper rifle. I’d settle for the compact SOCOM Mk-13 .300 caliber, 7″/1200meters. The SOCOM doesn’t blow the target’s head off. No Sir, that’d be too messy. Instead, the round slices through the air at over three times the speed of sound and bores a neat hole right through the target and a colleague, if one happens to be standing next.
The tempered steel jacketed intruder passes through tissue and blood vessels so swiftly and is out the other end so fast that the arteries, flesh and tissue collapse back almost immediately, without any blood spilling out. If it’s a head wound for example, you’d have to look real close to find it, the exit and entry wounds being exactly the same size.
Other guns might produce a dull ‘Thwack’ on hitting flesh but the SOCOM’s armor piercing round just goes ‘Pfut’, thats it. Not messy at all. Neat. Of course, if you presented me with it’s more powerful cousin, the Lapua Mag.338, 11″/1500, muzzle velocity Mach 3.83, for my birthday, which just happens to be tomorrow, I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
But I still prefer the compact Socom. Why, it is rumored that Carlos, the Jackal, had broken into tears when Fidel Castro gifted him with a hand-engraved Mk-13. It’s the assassin’s weapon of choice and you know me, I’m this very shadowy figure, last photographed when I was four with a silenced Beretta 7.62 in my hand, a man whose name sends shivers down folks’ spines, around whom myths abound, a man no one has actually seen or heard.
The last person who is reported to have actually seen and touched me babbles like a brook in a high-security asylum for raving lunatics. All I wanted to do was make love to her. Google me and three words will pop up just above a sinister skull and cross bones, direct from Larry Grynn and Sergei Brynn…”Are you crazy?”. When Saddam Hussein came to give me a contract to off Charlton Heston (Saddy Ech always mistook him for George Bush Sr), he came wearing an incontinence pouch, just in case he lost bladder control, seeing me. I’m that fearsome. If you come calling, wear a tight belt round your waist. It’ll stop you from jumping out of your skin. You get the hang. A man like me has to pick his weapons joodishusly.
And my other gun would be a hand gun, the Glock34 of course, loaded with 34 mercury fulminate tipped rounds, which, as they part tissue at thrice the speed of sound, will release the deadly mercury fulminate crystals inside the target’s body, coaxing it to turn upon itself and poison those parts that had escaped being annihilated directly by the bullet. Death by mercury fulminate poisoning is excruciatingly painful and long drawn out, sometimes taking as long as a half hour before the target lets out his last tortured breath. You can easily distinguish a corpse with mercury fulminate poisoning. The face will have a frozen scream.
The Glock34 is tiny, made entirely out of reinforced plastic (except the slides and the barrel of course), feather weight, feather touch, you could slip it inside your underwear and no one would bat an eyelid. But being hair trigger, guys have been known to have shot off their jewels when they reached for it in a hurry. There are even nicknames for unintentional Glock pistol self-inflicted injuries. Glock(no)balls, Glock thigh. When a cop says to another, “I just got myself a Glock thigh”, it means he accidentally shot himself while taking the Glock out of his thigh holster. The manufacturer, Glock of Austria, has intentionally given the weapon a hair trigger, which is actually two triggers, the outer trigger and the inner trigger. The gun won’t go off unless the inner trigger is pressed first.
I tip my rounds with mercury fulminate myself. I drill a hole in the nose of the bullet and insert a drop of mercury in the cavity. Then I seal the cavity with lead, leaving some airspace over the mercury (the free oxygen speeds the explosion on impact). When the Glock goes off, the mercury slams back in the cavity, then shoots forward when the bullet hits something and the nose of the round explodes spraying fine globules of the deadly poison deep inside the target. But I would advise you not to try to tip bullets by yourself. Its a highly dangerous, friction-sensitive material that ignites explosively at just 150 degrees C. Your Glock could blow up when fired unless certain precautions are taken and that’s classified GX22. I could tell you but I’d have to kill you right after.
I’m kidding about everything of course. For a Bengali to be a cold blooded assassin, a whole dairy farm of cows would have to jump over the moon. So, unless you hear the mission commander at the ISS yell,” Houston, we got a problem. Instead of the Soyuz, we have a cow at the docking interlock,” it’ll be safe to say that I couldn’t hurt a fly even if I wanted ta.
It’s just that this book review of “Glock: The rise of America’s Gun” by Paul Barrett makes it sound interesting. It details how a handgun virtually swept the American handgun market and became the handgun of choice for law enforcement officers, civilians, movie shoots and mafioso. What makes it interesting is that the narrative is peppered with accounts of famous shootouts and other real life Glock related incidents.
If you buy a Glock, remember to get the bullets tipped from me. They’re a scream.