Guns, Beer, and Skeet

I stayed with my brothers this weekend for a little man time. Jeffrey, Logan, and I all hung at Jeffrey's house in Bossier and we had a great time playing video games, watching movies, and we even got to catch a Mudbugs (local CHL team) game on Saturday night. Overall, it was an awesome weekend.

For entertainment on Saturday, I bought a skeet thrower and we all pitched in on some skeet and shells. Jeffrey came up with the location since his company just acquired some land outside of town for riding ATVs, and we were all set. We headed out to the land with the intent of setting up in one of the pastures, shooting some skeet, and heading home. Little did we know, the entertainment had only just begun.

When we got to the property, we were surprised to find that Scott (the owner of Jeff's company), his dad, and at least a half-dozen other guys (and girls) were all out on the property riding their ATVs. We didn't want to be rude, so we stopped and spoke to everyone there. It wasn't long, though, before the fateful question was asked: "What are you guys doing out here without a 4-wheeler?"

Of course, we had to answer truthfully which turned out to be our first mistake. "We're just gonna shoot some skeet…" And while the rest of that sentence would have been, "…in that pasture over there," it was never heard over the SCHICK SCHICK of at least a dozen shotguns in unison. Where cans of LoneStar and Coors had been, there was now a full arsenal of weaponry. Pockets that I thought were only big enough to hold oversized wallets, skoal, and a pocketknife were apparently also hiding shotgun shells. I mean to tell you, we no more got the word "skeet" out of our mouths and the beers went to the ground and the guns came out. "Where they at?" a chorus of twangy voices echoed while Jeffrey and I tried to regain our composure and figure a way out of having these half drunk, well armed locals shoot all of our skeet. And let me tell you, that's not the kind of "on-the-fly" thinking I normally do. It really is different when the guy (or girl) on the other side of the table has a loaded weapon.

We agreed to let them shoot a few that we threw in the air, and then Scott encouraged them to continue riding with him. Thank you, Scott! If we had broken out the actual skeet thrower, I'm pretty sure that we'd have never gotten them to leave. I did tell Jeffrey that it might have been funny to take the skeet thrower back apart and watch them try to assemble it, though. Jeffrey and I together (and straight up sober) took about an hour to put the thing together and we had to redo several parts of it several times before we got it right. Assembling that thing with anything less than a PhD in Astrophysics is nigh impossible. I don't know how the manufacturer figures that a country boy is going to put down his LoneStar and cigarette long enough to get that thing assembled. My bet is that they have a 70% return rate and most of those have scratches and holes due to the fact that the owner gave up on putting it together and just started shooting at the pieces.

Ours was already assembled by the time we arrived at the field, though, so we just set it up and starting having fun. Logan went 5 for 5 his first time out which just proves that he is Dan Doughty's son. You don't need a paternity test when you see a kid shoot like that. Jeffrey and I took a little longer to get going, but we started smoking them, too, before long. About the time we got to the end of our second case, the ATV riders returned. We were tired and ready to go home. They were tired of riding, on the verge of being drunk, and ready to break out the firearms. That's when we made our second mistake.

Jeffrey put a few mostly whole skeet under the twine of a nearby hay roll and pulled out his .45 pistol. Well, these guys weren't going to just sit around and watch. Jeffrey fired a few rounds and cracked the target. Good shooting. Then Jeffrey handed the pistol over to one of the riders. This guy took six shots and missed every time at which point he turned to Jeff and I and said, "Looky here. Ifn there's any ol' boy up in my place, he ain't gonna be standin' still waitin' on my ter shoot 'im; he's gonna be a movin'. Whatcha gotta do is throw sum dem skeet up in the air yonder 'n' I'll bust der eyes out." Jeffrey and I disarmed him and pointed him back to the cooler. The last thing he needed to be doing was waving a pistol around.

Next up: Michael. I took my stance and got one round off when I hear Jeffrey hollering at me, "Michael, move! Get down! Get outta there!" What the heck. I turned around and I was looking down the barrel of a .357 Magnum. One of them old boys on the 4-wheeler behind me had done pulled out his own pistol and was drawing down over my shoulder. I said, "Hey, this ain't the Buffalo Bill Wild West Show, man!" To which he replied, "Naw, it's good. I can drive nails with this thang!" I said, "Maybe so, but they ain't gonna be the nails in my coffin!"

Now I know what you're thinking. We should have left a long time ago, but certainly by that point we should have been out of there. We weren't, though, and you've really got to understand that it wasn't so much a question of whether we wanted to leave. It was more a question of whether it would be safe to leave. Trust me. We were outmanned and outgunned. No single one of them could have hit us (or the truck for that matter) but together someone was bound to get lucky (or unlucky if you were in my truck).

Regardless, we didn't leave at that point. No, we set up some more skeet as targets while they took turns shooting the .357. Shortly after, though, someone says, "Well, that .357 is alright, but you can't take down any deer with that. Let's shoot my .30-30." Ought came the rifle, and more shooting ensued. Next I hear, "Ya know. The .30-30 is okay, but if ya want to hit anything, you gotta shoot my .30-06 with a scope." Out comes the second rifle.

Just to make sure that you are keeping up. So far, Jeffrey, Logan, and I all have shotguns. Jeffrey has a pistol. All of the riders have shotguns. One of them also has a pistol. Two of them also have rifles. There is a total of about 15 firearms in the field at this point.

Back to the story. They start shooting the .30-06 with a scope. They are still missing the target. Exasperated, Jeffrey says, "Let me give that a try." Politely, he listens while they tell him that he has to aim about an inch low at this range, but I know what he was thinking: "Why would I listen to you dorks. You haven't hit the target yet." Calmly, he takes his stance. Slowly, he adjusts his aim and squeezes the trigger. BOOM! CRACK! Nearly instantaneously the feedback from his shot is a cracked target. Dead on. I mean, isn't that what you expect from a scoped rifle? I guess the other guys were aiming at the one on the left (out of a vertical arrangement of targets) when they should have been aiming for the one in the middle.

At this point, two things happened. First, we heard someone mention that if you really wanted to do some damage you'd have to shoot his .50 caliber. Second, we made our goodbyes and quickly hopped in the truck. I just knew that showing them all up in one shot wasn't a good idea, and the only thing that I could imagine coming after a .50-caliber would be a tank from the woods (and it wouldn't have surprised me a bit). We needed to leave before things got any more out of hand.

Thankfully, we survived, and we learned a valuable lesson. If you ever feel threatened in the backwoods of Texas or Louisiana, just holler "Skeet!" listen for the response, "Where dey at?" and watch the guns appear seemingly from nowhere.