“Come....come closer...” I said to the shooter who stood above me, checking my pockets for ammo or valuables as I bled out. The man ignored my words, tears in his eyes, trying desperately to remain callous to what had just transpired.
Just moments before, this man was my enemy, and while exchanging gunfire, my folding stock inexplicably broke off at the hinge. My rifle wouldn’t go into battery, and I had bought a Thunder Ranch edition Aero upper without the forward assist. “Should have bought forged,” I thought to myself as I pulled my Rock Island 1911 from its holster and fired.
It jammed. Of course it did.
I was stranded behind that brick wall.
He saw it all happen, too.
He saw his opening and he took it, just as I would have. His Winchester white box tore through my flesh with ease, and soon, everything would go black.
Any other day, we may have been friends. Hell, maybe brothers. But who could have predicted what this country had become? A union, torn by ideals, and now with blood. This man would be the last thing I ever saw, and though I had come to accept my death, I had one more thing to do in life.
“Please. Come closer. I need you to do this for me...Please.” I begged the man. I only needed closure. I needed to know that this one simple task could be completed.
Then all at once, with an exasperated sigh, the man ceased searching my pockets. He wiped his tears on his sleeve and his eyes met mine. Finally, he acknowledged my cries. “What do you need, börther?”
With my last breath, I spoke my final words:
“Please,” I begged. “Give New Frontier Armory a one-star Facebook review for me. This lower was trash.”
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