“Hell of a shot, Michael,” Frank Genesin said, “what is that two thousand yards?”
“Twenty-five hundred,” Michael said, turning and facing Frank. “How are you, Frank?” Frank shrugged. “take a shot?” Michael handed the rifle over. Then he handed over a shell. Frank loaded the shell, put the rifle to his shoulder, took a breath, let it out and squeezed the trigger. The can spun off it’s perch and bounced across the dirt. “You hit it,” Michael said, “Wasn’t clean though,” Frank said, handing the rifle back.
“You know why,” Michael asked. Frank knew why but, he also liked to let Michael be an instructor. Because he was good at it. “You’re not taking that three-second hold. That hold is the difference between a clean shot and sloppy shot. That three-second hold is the difference between a kill and a wound.” Frank nodded and they started to walk down the field toward the can.
“Three-second hold,” Frank said, and Michael nodded, “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m attacked by ….what is it we’re shooting at?”
“Baked beans,” Michael said.
“Baked beans,” Frank said, “next time I’m attacked by a can of baked beans I’ll take that three second hold.”
“Or, you know, you could just go fuck yourself.” Michael said.
“Or I could just do that,” Frank replied. They both laughed. Michael picked the can up from the dirt and showed it to frank. The top of the can was dented, Frank’s shot. The side showed two, new, clean, holes, entrance and exit. Michael handed the dripping can to Frank who looked it over. “Three-seconds,” Frank said and Michael nodded. Frank set the can back on it’s perch, turned a clean side facing down range and the two men started to walk back toward Frank’s truck.
“I’m hearing rumors,” Michael said after a silence.
“What rumors?” Frank asked.
“Well, I’m hearing that someone is gathering up some of the truckers. Some of the guys who aren’t too happy about being forced to retire.” Michael said. Frank just listened. “not sure exactly what they are planning, maybe some pay back. Maybe some kind of revenge.”