Well yes, getting paid to shoot .40-caliber rounds at a TQ-21 target is pretty orgasmic, but the afterglow is diminished by the dry biscuit training videos, the instruction on items detectives never use – tasers, OC spray, etc – and the lack of competent shooters on your line. At least the weather was nice’ cloudy, but cool, and it only started raining as the class ended.
Any hoo, I am shooting a string of six shots from the 7-yard line, and after the first shot I feel a burning on the back of my neck. I figure it’s either a tick, the really cute blonde range babe breathing on my neck, or a spent shell casing.
It was the shell casing.
Somehow, the casing ejected skyward, bounced off my baseball cap, and lodged between my vest and my skin. It was rather… unpleasant. I wanted to reach behind me and yank the casing out, but we were in the middle of a live fire exercise. I needed to suck it up, finish the string, and wait until the line was clear because I could address the searing shell.
The string ended, the instructors gave the all clear, and like a lunatic, I reached into my vest yanked out the casing, and threw it to the ground with a definitive “DAMMIT!” The blonde range babe behind me laughed and asked, “Casing?” Yeah, what was your first clue, honey; the flailing arms of the wet pants?
Thankfully, the rest of the evening went swimmingly. I ended up with a score of 97, after throwing two rounds from the 25-yard line. Lousy aging eyes!
Oh, and afterward we had to take a few turns on the FATS machine, which is like an interactive video game which records where your shots land on the movie screen. It’s very lifelike and fairly stressful. I was involved in two scenarios, and fired a round in each – both killing shots.
Heh, I still got it.