Thomas Wictor

I never owned guns until 2006. Now I have four, and I intend to buy two more. Currently I have three revolvers and one semiautomatic carbine. At some point I’ll purchase a 12-gauge shotgun and a Springfield Armory M1A SOCOM 16.

The reason I don’t have a semiautomatic rifle now is that the bullets could easily pass through the walls of my house and hit innocent neighbors. Or my brother. I want a rifle with tremendous stopping power, so I choose the M1A SOCOM 16. But it would be irresponsible for me to own one while living in a home made of drywall and wooden siding.

Though my carbine fires a pistol-caliber round, I use hollow points for maximum lethality. Also, the long barrel of a carbine traps the gasses behind the bullet for a longer time than in a pistol, giving the round much more energy.

What initially influenced me to buy guns was this.

All the hysteria about the “slow” rescue effort was nothing but politics-based propaganda. After any gigantic natural disaster, survivors in the US can expect to be on their own for up to ninety-six hours. This is common knowledge. If the roads are impassable, and all the helicopters are being used to pluck people off rooftops, how can the government help you?

The answer is that it can’t. Hurricane Katrina woke me up to the fact that if a huge earthquake hit Southern California, everyone would turn into animals. Nobody prepares for natural disasters, so they’d come looking for food and water, and they’d do whatever it took to get it. On top of this realization, I knew that my elderly father had bought a gasoline-powered generator. A LOUD one. His plan was to hook up our three houses so we’d have power while everyone else was in the dark.

About three minutes after he did so, hundreds of these would descend on us.

It was not possible to talk my father out of his idea to turn our three houses into beacons for murderers, so I reluctantly bought a carbine and a handgun. I didn’t want to, because I don’t like guns.

On December 28, 1995, this thing came out of the darkness in the parking lot of the bookstore where I worked.

He was smiling behind his balaclava, and he bobbed and weaved like a boxer. Or a cobra. Overcome with glee, he bounced on his toes and squealed, “Don’t f*ck with me, man!” in a voice I later recognized. I know who he is. He raised his TEC-9 semiautomatic pistol and pointed it at my right eye.

I immediately turned and ran, my mind collapsing into utter chaos. My brother Tim said the gunman ran after me, aiming the gun at back of my head. I have no doubt that he tried to murder us, but the gun jammed. The TEC-9 is notorious for jamming unless it’s kept scrupulously clean. The man who tried to murder us that night is a fabulist, a fantasizer. He doesn’t even clean himself, much less his guns.

The murder attempt was part of an insurance scam; the murderer would kill my brother and me, and then he’d drive off with our boss’s worthless junk. Our boss would claim that he’d been robbed of rare books worth $500,000. That was the figure he kept giving us before we forced him to reveal that he had no secret stash. Our attempt to save him almost cost us our lives.

Running through a dark parking lot while chased by a gunman who intended to murder me is indescribable. Not only was I terrified, I was unbelievably sad that my life would end so violently and with such ugliness. And I was helpless to prevent it. This made me militantly anti-gun until I bought my first firearms.

Owning guns made me realize that they’re just tools. I have no pro-gun bumper stickers, I belong to no gun discussion forums, and I don’t think about my guns very much. Although I’m armed at all times, I view the handgun I carry as a shirt or a pair of shoes. Being armed doesn’t make me feel either invincible or paranoid. The gun is like my car. I’ve been in three serious car accidents, none of which were my fault. I now drive defensively, aware of my surroundings at all times. It’s the same with the gun.

This video of the Taliban murdering Shi’ites in a Peshawar mosque best illustrates why I own and carry guns.

The worshipers were utterly at the mercy of murderers. It was the same for me in that parking lot on December 28, 1995.

This terrorist shoots the men on the floor at point-blank range. He’s wearing a police uniform.

He runs out and then returns with another terrorist.

The suicide bomber enters (red arrow).

There’s one piece of good news from this atrocity: One terrorist didn’t get out fast enough. You see him running frantically for the exit (blue arrow). He was obviously killed in the explosion.

Don’t get me wrong—guns are not a panacea. But I will never again be helpless as a murderer bears down on me. I don’t aim for center mass; I shoot at the groin and the mouth. If someone wearing body armor attacks me, he’s going to lose his testicles, and then he’ll get a bullet in his cakehole. That’ll stop him, guaranteed.

On the other hand, if someone ambushes me, that’s the end. My gun won’t help. But if I have advance warning, at the very least I’ll take some bastard with me, and we can stand before God together and explain ourselves. I’m not worried about facing God, because I don’t fear Him. I’m also not afraid of death.

It’s the principle of the thing. Who do these subhumans think they are, wreaking such havoc in my world? A gun will allow me a slight advantage over being unarmed. And I do want to live as long as possible. Life can be very nice sometimes.

If I’m going to be killed, I want to see the expression on the guy’s face after my bullets smash into his mouth. Before the lights go out, I hope I’ll have enough time to see him drop his rifle and issue a gargling screech of disbelief and outrage.

Even better, if I shoot him in the groin with the right ammunition, maybe he’ll do what this Islamic State terrorist did.