Chapter 166

"So what did you want from me," The Brit asked.

"God don't make it sound like I'm asking for a kidney," I said with a laugh.

"Alright what can I do for you," he asked.

"I bought a rifle and a scope. I was hoping I could get you to mate them and zero the scope in for thirty yards or so." I said.

"You have to know where you want it Silvie. The parallax view will cause it to be off at any other range." he said.

"Make it thirty-five yards then and I will guesstimate the rest," I said.

"My advice go with the SWAG system," he said.

"Yeah Scientific Wild Ass Guess," I agreed.

"Do you have it with you," he asked.

I opened the back of the car and took the rifle out. "Here you go," I said.

"I'll have it for you in the morning, when you come to help with the bar," he said.

"You don't have to rush," I advised him.

"I want to do it this afternoon while Jeremy sulks," he said with a smile.

"He still wants to move back to capitol city?" I asked.

"Yeah, but it's his choice, I'm staying right here," The Brit informed me.

You want me to come along?" I asked.

"No, I would really like to be alone," he said firmly.

"Okay, I'll get the rifle in the morning," I said.

The Brit had the equipment to bore sight the rifle. He would project a laser through the bore and then focus the scope just above it. The distance above it would be the the amount of drop one would expect at thirty-five yards. There was a mathematical formula for it.

It I shot the rifle at a target twenty yards away it would come in a little low, and if I shot at fifty yards it would be a little high. That was the parallax view rule. I didn't plan to shoot anything so small that an inch or two would be the difference between my life or death.

The Brit left with my rifle, and I left with an empty cruiser van. I drove back to the box house feeling all alone. So The Brit could see that Jeremy wasn't going to be happy in County Seat, even so he had bought a building, He was planning to build a pub, and I was going to help him. So fuck you very much Jeremy, I thought.

When I got home the place was just as I left it. I had to rummage through all the sofa frame storage boxes before I found my hair trimmer. I unpacked the plastic case with the trimmer and accessories. I found the squeeze tube of oil in the case, so I lubed the blades. I attached the long cutter guard. The guard turned the electric razor into a trimmer. I took a drink of the shine and started the motor. When I cut my hair all off before, I was in a different place than at that moment. I wanted it to look like something this time. The last time I hadn't cared.

I ran the trimmer over my head several time, and in every possible angle. When I was finished I ran my hand over it to be sure I hadn't missed any. Of course I had to run over a few spots again to even it up.

When I finished the cut, I took off all my clothes and stepped into the shower stall. I lathered my hair several times and rinsed it as well. It was free of all oil when I finished. It also stood almost straight up and in a butch cut. It was an inch long around my ears as well as ragged in the back. Since I couldn't see to run the razor over those spots I just left them ragged.

It was a mess but my hair was thin enough that it would adapt I was sure. It didn't look any worse than the punk cuts I had seen around. Hell some women paid a hundred bucks for their hair to look this bad, I thought.

I used the built in web cam on my computer to take picture of my new hair cut. I decided that if I wore eye make up and lipstick I would look like a punk female. If no make up, an effeminate gay guy. And if I didn't bind my breast, I could keep them guessing. So I had three completely different looks, which I could change with no more tan an elastic bandage and five dollar worth of makeup. Pretty cool was my final thought on it.

I took a good look at my club hand. I had about 60% range of movement after a year of squeezing the tennis ball whenever I could. I still couldn't make the hand close completely. If I held anything in it's grip, it was just as likely to wind up on the floor as to stay in the hand. It was not a part of my body I could count on any more. I noted this because it had been useless in trimming my hair. Oh well I had no choice, but to work with what I had.

Since my thumb and first finger wouldn't meet I could half ass grip the rifle's forearm but it wasn't very secure. I knew I was going to have to figure it out if I ever planned to use the rifle. I still had the 12guage pump gun, which was pretty much useless at the moment. I knew I had to begin spending more time with the firearms.

I knew I was a danger not only to myself, but to others as well. Swamp Dog picked missions in an urban setting for me. Sharp and shiny weapons or hand guns were needed in those situations nothing more. In a field environment the lack of grip in my left hand would be a problem. Somehow Swamp Dog had allowed me to work without being 100%. I wondered if I wasn't more dangerous than helpful to my partners though.