The president of the Louis & Clark Rifle & Pistol Club was yawning in front of the television, about ready for bed, when the phone rang. “I’m a gun writer, doing an article on the 75th anniversary of the Ruger .22 pistol. Is there someone at your club who might give me some interesting quotes?”
“Why, that’s easy,” replies the president. “Be at the club tomorrow at 1:00 p.m. and meet the Senior Member. Don’t be put off by his gruff demeanor; he’s really a big cuddly bear. You might bring him his favorite coffee, a chocolate caramel macchiato with sprinkles, whipped cream, double sugar and triple soy milk. Ignore his dog; he likes that. What publication are you with?”
“Well, none. I’m a freelancer trying to get started.”
“Ah, an AGW — aspiring gun writer. I can assure you the Senior Member will be most impressed.” His wife, who had overheard, said, “That was kind of mean.” But she had to stifle a giggle. “Who are you messing with, the Senior Member or the AGW?” “Bit of both, actually.”
Promptly at 1 p.m. the next day, the AGW had the Senior Member pointed out to him. He didn’t look at all cuddly, quite the opposite, in fact. The AGW marched bravely up, set a coffee cup on the side table, and said, “How do you do, sir? I was hoping you might give me a few moments to talk about …”
“About the Ruger .22 pistol, I was advised of your interest by the club president this morning.” He pried the lid off the coffee cup and managed to conceal his horror at the sugary concoction. “May I ask, did the president suggest this coffee?”
“Yes indeed,” replied the AGW. “I wanted to be sure to get what you liked. And he told me you don’t like your dog getting treats.”
“Oh, did he? I am reminded of the old saying: Revenge is a dish best eaten cold. You probably aren’t aware the president sent you to play in traffic. He knows I don’t have a high opinion of gun writers, with the notable exceptions of John Taffin and Mike Venturino. Your good intentions absolve you. To quote Arthur Conan Doyle, “You have done something to mitigate my feelings for the loathsome profession to which you unhappily belong.”
“Thank you. I think. Does that mean you’ll help me? Aren’t you going to drink the coffee?”
“I’ll save it for later. And yes, I will help you. Write this down or start your infernal sound recorder.
Read the full article here