BUDDY, COULD YOU SPARE A BULLET?

A number of my readers remarked with a bit of sarcasm, “Boo hoo, you rich folks with too many jobs—why don’t you share a few of them with us?” I too forgot our unfortunate unemployed and homeless Americans. I am truly sorry.

I can remember, a long time ago, a man coming up to me on the street, asking not for money, but for a bullet, a .45 to be exact. I had not heard a beggar ask for such a round in decades (usually it’s a .22 or a shotgun shell), and he could tell by that glint in my eye I wanted to see it. Would you believe a Colt .45 revolver that looked as if it dated from the Old West? I offered him $800 cash on the spot, but he simply scowled and lifted his coat, revealing a Bowie knife that looked even older. “My great grand-dad got this is a gunfight, an’ I ain’t sellin’ it to no fancy PRO’fessor—either they’re gonna bury me with it or it’s going take me out of this shithole.”

I nodded, understanding, and gave him six rounds, all that I had in my pockets. “Mind if I hold that?” I asked, repentantly. He looked me over, taking the bullets, and placed it in my hands. The wooden hilt was smooth, notched five times. An Ace, I thought, hoping they meant what I figured they did. I handed the gun back, hilt first, and asked, “Can I buy you lunch?”

“Liquid?”

“Sure, where?” That was the best bottle of whiskey I’d ever shared. He could tell me every man (they had all been men) that his Colt .45 had killed since his great grand-dad picked it off that gunslinger that challenged him to a draw. Turns out the five notches were there when this gun passed into his family. It had earned eight more in the century since. Thirteen. I gave the man the $800 cash just for his story. And friend, if you’re still alive and have a place so search the Internet, I’d love to share another bottle with you.

WOW!! That was bizarre. I hadn’t thought about him in close to ten years, and wham, it was like yesterday. Anyway, back to the poor and murder. I apologize for failing to consider the plight of those with no income who also would like to kill beyond their freeway overpass or shelter.

First, do not pull guns out of cardboard boxes, especially if they are marked FREE (that’s how I tell rich killers to dispose of their weapons—if you leave them be, eventually the cops will find them and send them pampered asses to jail). The conventional wisdom is that any gun you can find, even if it is at the bottom of the East River, has been used in a murder and is covered with prints. If you add yours, you’ll be instantly guilty of multiple murders. Stealing a gun from middle class and rich folks is your best bet. They often leave them under the seats in their SUVS or lying in the nurseries of their mansions. Grab one of those, and if you can return it before it’s reported missing better yet, another rich SOB accused of murder—but alas, no matter what the evidence, the rich have lawyers that can get them acquitted of anything (See: What Would OJ Do?).

Next, go to one of those Christian shelters and start talking about how Satan led you to drink and laziness. Christians love that stuff. Act like you find Jesus talking to you through the whiskey and they’ll give you a bunk, a Bible, and BLT. That’s the 3 B’s, Christian style. Once you’re in, and you pray in group meetings, they’ll say you’ve never left.

Finally, stay put for a few weeks, enjoying three squares and Bible study, clean clothes from rich folks, and a bed with less vermin than most shelters. And in no time, you’re free to sin again. Wow, what salvation can do for a sinner! Makes me wish I could stand the sight and smell of my fellow man.

Kill the rich and hide amongst the Christians. It’s foolproof.