San Diego Del Mar Gun Show
A friend of mine called me up late Saturday evening and invited me to the Del Mar gun show early Sunday morning. I’ve never been to a gun show, and so on my one day off this week I got up at the ungodly hour of 9am, slammed down a bowl of Trix, jumped into my car and met the guys at the Del Mar Racetrack. It was only after we were forced to navigate our way though a maze of San Diego p.d.’s finest did I think that this was going to be no ordinary outing.
Everywhere, signs warned that the selling of guns without a license was illegal, boldly claiming that undercover police would be tempting random patrons into participating in illicit weapons transactions, and those seduced would then be punished to the fullest extent of the law. And, under no exceptions, would photography be allowed on the trading room floor.
This, my friends, was a survivalist’s heaven. Never before had I seen so many crewcuts, handle-bar mustaches, ex-military, and white supremacists gathered together in one location in my life. This was the equivalent to a comic book convention for the heavily armed set.
Everywhere I turned I was surrounded by desperate looking, large-gutted, out of shape antagonists of every shade on the hunt for cheap firearms and swift, sharp cutting implements. Intermingling with the armed hardcore civilian populace were narrow-eyed moonlighting law enforcement officers listening intently to their in-ear coms for any signs of verboten activity.
Inside, the hanger was humid with the stink of good citizens desperate to take full advantage of our second amendment. Money in sweaty, fleshy hands was eagerly traded away for second hand Beretta Storms, Remington Express 12 gauge shotguns, and imported Volkstrum rifles. They languished under unwieldy palates of fresh ammunition, blowguns, and atlatl spears. Straining from the weight of their purchases and their own heavy frames, this ragged army of loyal Americans, tejido country singers, and shadowy figures from indeterminate countries of origins trudged though the rain-soaked parking lot with their deadly munitions in tow, hoping to live though whatever unavoidable in-country skirmish was, in their minds, brewing on the eventual horizon.
As for me, I was happy to escape this spastic showcase of American freedom with my individualistic soul in tact, angling my way towards the exit with not but a 2.5 million volt stun gun in hand. This bad boy sounds so positively evil that any home intruder would beat feet out their nearest point of entry in hopes of avoiding an encounter with the business end of such a beastly device.
The entrance to the American dream, complete with an NRA booth.
Shooting from the hip to avoid the heavy security and their "no cameras" policy
My new Cheetah taser gun in action, making a sickening noise.
