kagablog

From The Life of Henry Fuckit, 1950-2015

“Sir, allow me to take over where my colleague has left off.” This was a younger man, taller and thinner with a long narrow face and small bright eyes. His sales manner was smooth to the point of unctuousness. “Take it from me sir, and I’m being particularly frank with you, we really value the way you’ve come in here and made these serious enquiries. Lest there be any misunderstanding - my colleague’s English is not quite what it should be - let me rephrase his last statement. He feels you should definitely take the Springfield and under no circumstances should you leave it. He is perfectly correct in insisting that every adult white male in South Africa should be required by law, for his own good, to own at least four appropriate firearms. It would be irresponsible for him not to do so. He has shown you this assault rifle which you can use in situations similar to the one he has just described. You could say it is mainly intended for shooting people who are running away and are unlikely to try and defend themselves. Now this…” He turned and took down a piece of artillery from the wall rack. “…This is the latest technology in submachine guns. This is really beautiful.”

At the sight of it laid on the counter in front of him Henry’s stomach lurched and he took a step backward. The dull steel surfaces were blunt and naked; it lay there heavy and brutish like an oversized black dildo, menacing and obscene. The salesman stroked it lightly with his fingertips.

“We have the sole agency for the entire country.” He said this with consummate smugness. “Sanctions, as part of the Communist Onslaught, have made us into the most innovative developers of weaponry in the entire world. There is absolutely nothing to beat this. The AK47 is a toy by comparison - the name tells you how outdated it is: Avtomat Kalashnikov 1947. 1947! In twenty years there’s been virtually no change. The AK47 is really just a pistol with a stock fitted to it - very basic. That’s why it’s found all over Africa - it’s so basic even a coon can use it. It’s K-proof. But - it’s got no range. There’s the Belgian FN, the German G-3, the Italian Beretta, the American M16. They’re all just about as basic and do the same job. Up till now I would say the most modern and effective submachine gun has been the Israeli UZI. It’s definitely the most compact, with a folding metal stock. But this Armscor beauty is far and away superior. This is the top of the SSD range, the Vrekker.”

“The Vrekker? What does SSD stand for?” Henry felt obliged to feign some interest in the technicalities.

“Skop Skiet Donner. Unlike all other submachine guns the Vrekker doesn’t rely on gas or recoil operation. With the AK47 the power for the unloading / reloading cycle comes from the gases in the barrel before the bullet leaves the muzzle. There’s a port in the barrel that is uncovered when the bullet passes, and gas enters and forces a piston back to compress the main spring. The Vrekker is entirely different, using the roller principle, involving friction. The breech is held closed while the pressure in the cartridge case is high, but opens when pressure falls to a safe level. The bolt is locked under high pressure but the moment the pressure drops it opens easily. The result is ZERO MALFUNCTION.” He picked up the gun. “Now let me demonstrate some of these features. This is the flash suppressor, making it an ideal piece for night action. These are the standard, height adjustable sights, but it is possible to fit the optional autofocus rangefinder attachment. Here is the folding bipod mount… back here is the locknut for the tripod mount if required. A fully adjustable traversing and elevating mechanism is supplied free of charge with the tripod. Now one of the great advantages with the Vrekker is it’s dual loading option. Firstly it is possible to belt load, the belt entering the breech here. By the way, this is the ejection port here. Or, alternatively, to magazine load.” He opened a drawer under the counter and produced a magazine and clipped it into place. Grasping the gun with businesslike resolve he pointed it at a forty-five degree angle past Henry’s head and pulled the trigger.

The burst of fire was brief but deafening. Henry was so shocked his mouth fell open and his eyes bulged from their sockets. “Jesus Christ man! For FUCK sake!!” His ears were ringing and the smoke hanging in the air smelt like the fifth of November. He turned and looked up and saw above the door, fixed to the concrete beam running the width of the shop, a Jarrah railway sleeper. It was riddled with hundreds of holes.

“That was three-shot auto, but you can set it to five, seven and ten, as well as semi and full.”

By now the two beers at the Metropole had made their way through his system and Henry’s bladder had filled. He became aware, with growing embarrassment, that he had involuntarily released a small quantity of urine when the maniac behind the counter had opened fire. He could feel an uncomfortable dampness at his crotch and, although he was wearing underpants today, he worried that their absorbency might not be sufficient to prevent a telltale dark patch from appearing on his PT shorts. He dared not look down for fear of drawing attention to himself so instead he moved closer in to the counter.

“What am I supposed to do with this thing? This is military hardware. This is for full-scale war.”

“Exactly. That’s just the point. We have already entered a war situation. Didn’t you see the Cape Times this morning? Hey, Clint, can we see the paper?”

Clint ran a comb through his hair, sweeping it back off his Cro-Magnon forehead. He wiped off the excess Brylcream on his trousers, returned the comb to his lunch box, adjusted his belt, and made his way over with the newspaper. He walked awkwardly, rolling with his left leg, the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel of a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum slapping against his thigh.

“Thanks. Take a look at this and tell me if we’re at war or not.” He spread the paper in front of Henry. On the front page was a large monochrome photo of a man sitting in a puddle of water. He was without trousers and his arms rested loosely on his spread knees. The head was held forward as if in dejection and the face and hands were black. Minstrel black, not from boot polish but because they were charred black.

“This man took a wrong turn yesterday and landed up in Guguletu. A mob stoned his car and threw petrol bombs at it. Because he was white.” He left the paper spread before Henry. “Now what we’re saying is that it’s necessary to defend yourself.”

Henry felt sick and his mind slid back some eight or nine years to the library at Ingachini. He was standing before the bookcase, an open book in his hands. Herr Friedemann was in his Morris chair staring out through the open door into the afternoon haze. Fixed and devoid of human feeling, the eyes of concentration camp inmates stared up at Henry, and his whole being revolted and cried out as the implications began to dawn on him. The same choking horror was upon him now.

“Sir! Sir, I said, would you like to come downstairs to the range and get a feel for this beauty yourself?” Henry shook his head. The man looked disappointed but doggedly pressed ahead with his insincere patter. “Alright then, suit yourself. Instead, let me explain to you the tactical procedure you will need to follow when you are suddenly confronted by a mob of mad savages, like this man was.” He nodded in the direction of the newspaper.

“Let us assume we are driving in an unsafe area, and that’s just about the whole country, and we turn a corner, and there, advancing towards us, stretched across the road, is a large group of black youth, chanting, dancing, shouting and wielding various dangerous instruments, objects and missiles, all for the purpose of hurling. Now, we must be constantly vigilant and expecting such an event to take place wherever we are travelling. What we do, when this situation arises, is this: we jump on the brakes and at the same time we crash the gears into reverse - we don’t worry about the gearbox; it’s better to have a stuffed gearbox than a Molotov cocktail through the windscreen - and then we drive backwards at the highest speed possible. I, personally, have become very good at this. But only because I take it seriously. Every Sunday after church I go to the Goodwood Showground and I practise driving in reverse in the car park. For at least half an hour. I strongly recommend this because you never know what’s around the corner. Alright. Now let’s say we’ve driven back and put about two hundred yards between us and the advancing crowd of tsotsis. We brake sharply and swing the car sideways across the road and leap out. We open the boot and take out the SSD Vrekker ready-loaded with a thousand round belt. We spread the bipod on the bonnet and we aim for the middle of the oncoming wall. When it is seventy-five yards distant we give them a short greeting. Then ten shots to the left and ten shots to the right. Smooth, unhurried sweeps. When their comrades begin to fall they will break up and run. If they don’t, and they still keep coming, we put it on auto and give them a slow three-second sweep left to right. At six hundred rounds per minute that’s ten bullets per second. Then three seconds right to left. That’s how an intelligent South African manages to survive today.”

It seemed to Henry that this man’s enthusiasm for his job went beyond the call of duty. The owner of City Guns was a fortunate employer indeed.

“Yes Sir. The Vrekker is an amazing piece of hardware. It can fire as slow as six hundred rounds per minute or as fast as four thousand rounds per minute. Imagine it!” He paused to give Henry time to comprehend the rapidity with which the Vrekker could fire and then proceeded with the next phase of his sales strategy.

Ian Martin’s controversial novel Pop-splat is now available from http://www.pop-splat.co.za.