#Viper Double Pistol Case

[deathdealertactical]

The Best Cases for Carrying Your Pistols: Viper Pistol Case, Ranger DLX, and Ranger Padded Pistol Sleeve

When it comes to safely transporting your pistols, having the right carrying case is essential. Whether you’re heading to the range, storing your firearms at home, or traveling with your gear, a secure, padded case ensures your pistols are protected from damage and easily accessible. At Death Dealer Tactical, we offer several options tailored for different needs, including the Viper Double Pistol…

[martellmafia]

The Homecoming Prince | Martell Mafia AU

They’d say the Red Viper warned him. The shotgun laid across the table did him no good at close range, but the little prick insisted on trying his luck.

He was, as predicted, far too slow on the draw.

Old men loved their old tales.

Andrey Dalt said this often. Andrey Dalt with his economics degree from the University of Braavos, his stuffy suits, and shiny shoes. The flaw in his father’s business model, he posited, is foolish adherence to outdated rules. Take Dorne’s brothel industry. The Dalts could double their income without the Martell policy banning sex slavery. Instead, they overpaid high and mighty whores when they could have docile servants and increased profit margins like the brothels in Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh.

When Gerold Dayne came to Lemonwood Casino, offering just that deal under potential Yronwood leadership, Andrey happily passed the message to his father. “It’s a new day in Dorne,” he said with a slick salesman’s smile. “The Sun is setting.”

His father was hesitant, but in the end, agreed to withhold their men for a while. See how the tides turned before committing to a side. Finally, Andrey thought, the old man was coming around to logic.

You see, he’d heard stories of the old Martells. Of shrewd Loreza who ruled Dorne with a delicately manicured iron first. Of her Myrrish consort, a brawler who once pistol-whipped a man for neglecting to address his wife as "Princess." Of Lewyn, younger brother and consigliere, who toted a gold gun to match his pinky ring and Rolex so traitors to House Martell “were blinded by the gleam of the Sun” before they met their end.

But those were just stories. These Martells—Doran in his wheelchair, Arianne who had more energy for Targaryen cock than ruling Dorne, and that glorified middle manager Elia—were weak; their rules, antiquated.

And their "Red Viper." Well. He allegedly committed some heinous sin back in the day to get excommunicated, but Andrey had his own theories. More than likely, he just couldn’t cut it. Better suited for partying and fucking based on all the tabloid headlines.

This was not the case. And Andrey Dalt would learn just how wrong he was the night the Red Viper walked into Lemonwood Casino.

***

In the end, people would say it happened fast.

The Red Viper standing over a blood-splattered blackjack table with Ullwyck Uller—a slip of a man with a hair-trigger temper—at his side, arms extended, gripping a Desert Eagle in each palm.

The air in the room. Blood, sweat, and tension mingling with the faint smell of sand that clings to the desert nights. And fear, the kind of fear that takes hold when one realizes they’ve stepped on a sleeping viper.

The sweat-drenched wailing young man with his wrist pinned to the table by a dagger. He started the night a smirking asshole, throwing his weight around as if he was more than a nameless soldier for a third-tier family.

They’d say the Red Viper forewarned him. The shotgun laid across the table did him no good at close range, but the little prick insisted on trying his luck.

He was, as predicted, far too slow on the draw.

Some would remember the Red Viper’s words to the other foot soldier: “When I pull my blade, your friend starts bleeding; quite a lot I’m afraid. So many veins in the wrist. But if you fetch your boss straight away, maybe—” he looked back at One-Hand. “What is your name?”

“Tre-tre-tre-bor.”

“—maybe Trebor will live. So… decisions.”

They’d talk about that fountain of blood. When Andrey Dalt entered the room and the Red Viper snatched his blade from Trebor’s wrist, the blood rushed out like volcanic lava.

Andrey made his best attempt at indignation. “What is the meaning of this?” he humphed. He claimed the Viper was out of line. That he had no jurisdiction, no grounds.

Appealing to those pesky antiquated rules.

Rules his father still respected enough to sacrifice a son to honor them.

In the end, people would say Andrey was never supposed to be the heir. Deziel lost his eldest, his daughter Dyanna, in a car accident during Andry’s first year of college. She was the true steel. Grew up at her father’s side while Andrey pranced around the high-rise boardrooms of the Braavosi financial district. After Dyanna’s death, Deziel hoped to train him; gave him the casino to get his feet wet. But clever Drey, with his charts and graphs and analyses, knew more than his old father could ever teach.

And Deziel did have a nephew…

When it was over, blood pooled around Andrey Dalt’s body on the Lemonwood Casino floor, soaking the crisp white shirt sleeves he rolled up his forearms when he dressed that day. With two shots to the head, his life ended; the footnote of yet another of Dorne’s old tales.

In the days following, from the valleys of Red Mountains to the shores of the Summer Sea, they'd say this was the night Oberyn Nymeros-Martell returned to Dorne's underworld.

The night the sleeping Sun peeked over the horizon and drove its Spear into the sand.

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 11 paragraph xiii

The painting was wrapped and tied, and Boris had tucked it under his arm and—taking a last draw on his cigarette—had stepped around to the driver’s side and was about to get in the car when, behind us, a casual and friendly-sounding American voice said, “Merry Christmas.” I turned. There were three of them, two lazy-walking middle-aged men drifting along a bit bemusedly with the air of having come to do us a favor—it was Boris they were addressing, not me, they seemed glad to see him—and, skittering slightly in front of them, the Asian boy. His white coat was not a kitchen worker’s coat at all but some asymmetrical thing made out of white wool about an inch thick; and he was shivering and practically blue-lipped with fright. He was unarmed, or seemed to be, which was good, because what I mainly noticed about the other two—big guys, all business—was blued handgun metal glinting in the sleazy fluorescents. Even then, I didn’t get it— the friendly voice had thrown me; I thought they’d caught the boy and were bringing him to us—until I looked over at Boris and saw how still he’d gone, chalk-white. “Sorry to do this to you,” said the American to Boris, though he didn’t sound sorry—if anything, pleased. He was broadshouldered and bored-looking, in a soft gray coat, and despite his age there was something petulant and cherubic about him, overly ripe, soft white hands and a soft managerial blandness. Boris—cigarette in mouth—stood frozen. “Martin.” “Yeah, hey!” said Martin genially, as the other guy—gray blond thug in a pea coat, coarse features out of Nordic folklore—ambled straight up to Boris, and, after grappling around at Boris’s waistband, took his gun and passed it over to Martin. In my confusion I looked at the boy in the white coat but it was like he’d been struck on the head with a hammer, he didn’t seem any more amused or edified by any of this than I was. “I know this sucks for you,” said Martin—“but. Wow.” The low key voice was a shocking contrast to the eyes, which were like a puff adder’s. “Hey. Sucks for me too. Frits and I were at Pim’s, we weren’t expecting to get out. Nasty weather, eh? Where’s our white Christmas?” “What are you doing here?” said Boris, who despite his overly still air was as afraid as I’d ever seen him. “What do you think?” Jocular shrug. “I’m surprised as you, if it makes any difference. Never would have thought Sascha had the balls to call in Horst on this. But—hey, fuck-up like this, who else could he call, I guess? Let’s have it,” he said, with an affable tick of the gun, and with a rush of horror I realized he was pointing the gun at Boris, gesturing with the gun at the felt-wrapped package in Boris’s hands. “Come on. Give it over.” “No,” said Boris sharply, shaking the hair from his eyes. Martin blinked, with a sort of befuddled whimsy. “What’s that you say?” “No.” “What?” Martin laughed. “No? Are you kidding me?” “Boris! Give it to them!” I stammered, as I stood frozen in horror, as the one named Frits put his pistol to Boris’s temple and then caught Boris by the hair and pulled his head back so sharply he groaned. “I know,” said Martin amicably, with a collegial glance at me, as if to say: hey, these Russians—nuts, am I right? “Come on,” he said to Boris. “Let’s have it.” Again Boris moaned, as the guy yanked his hair once more, and from across the car threw me an unmistakeable look—which I understood just as plainly as if he’d spoken the words aloud, an urgent and very specific cut of the eyes straight from our shoplifting days: run for it, Potter, go. “Boris,” I said, after a disbelieving pause, “please, just give it to them,” but Boris only moaned again, despairingly, as Frits jammed the gun hard under his chin and Martin stepped forward to take the painting from him. “Excellent. Thanks for that,” he said bemusedly, tucking his gun under his arm and beginning to pluck and fumble with the string, which Boris had tied in an obstinate little knot. “Cool.” His fingers weren’t working very well, and up close, when he’d reached to take the painting, I’d seen why: he was high as a kite.

“Anyway—” Martin glanced behind him, as if wanting to include absent friends on the joke, then back with another bemused shrug—“sorry. Take them over there, Frits,” he said, still busy with the painting, nodding at a shadowy, dungeon-like corner of the garage, darker than the rest, and when Frits turned partly from Boris to gesture at me with the gun—come on, come on, you too—I realized, cold with horror, what Boris had known was going to happen from the moment he saw them: why he’d wanted me to run for it, or at least to try. But in the half-moment as Frits was motioning to me with the gun, we’d all lost track of Boris, whose cigarette flew out in a shower of sparks. Frits screamed and slapped his cheek, then stumbled back grappling at his collar where it had lodged against his neck. In the same instant Martin—distracted with the painting, directly across from me—looked up, and I was still looking at him blankly across the roof of the car when I heard it, to my right, three fast cracks which made us both turn quickly to the side. With the fourth (flinching, eyes closed) a warm spray of blood thumped across the car roof and struck me in the face and when I opened my eyes again the Asian kid was stepping back horrified and drawing a hand down his front in a bloody smear like a butcher’s apron and I was staring at a lighted sign Beetaalautomaat op where Boris’s head had been; blood was pouring from under the car and Boris was on the ground on his elbows, feet going, he was trying to scramble up from the floor, I couldn’t tell if he was hurt or not and I must have run around to him without thinking because the next thing I knew I was on the other side of the car and trying to help him up, blood everywhere, Frits was a mess, slumped against the car with a baseball-sized hole in the side of his head, and I’d just noticed Frits’s gun lying on the ground when I heard Boris exclaim sharply and there was Martin, tight-eyed with blood on his sleeve, hand clamped to his arm and fumbling to bring up his gun. It had happened before it even happened, like a skip in a DVD throwing me forward in time, because I have no memory at all of picking the pistol off the floor, only of a kick so hard it threw my arm in the air, I didn’t really hear the bang until I felt the kick and the casing flew back and hit me in the face and I shot again, eyes half-closed against the noise and my arm jolting with every shot, the trigger had a resistance to it, a stiffness, like pulling some tooheavy door latch, car windows popping and Martin with an arm coming up, exploding safety glass and chunks of concrete flying out a pillar and I’d got Martin in the shoulder, the soft gray cloth was drenched and dark, a spreading dark stain, cordite smell and deafening echo that drove me so deep inside my skull that it was less like actual sound striking my eardrums than a wall slamming down hard in my mind and driving me back into some hard internal blackness from childhood, and Martin’s viper eyes met mine and he was slumped forward with the gun propped on the roof of the car when I shot again and hit him above the eye, red burst that made me flinch and then, somewhere behind me, I heard the sound of running feet slapping on concrete —the boy, white coat running to the exit ramp with the painting under his arm, he was running up the ramp to the street, echoes reverberating in the tiled space and I almost shot at him only somehow it was a completely different moment and I was facing away from the car, I was doubled over with my hands on my knees and the gun was on the ground, I had no memory of dropping it although the sound was there, it was clattering to the floor and it kept on clattering and I was still hearing the echoes and feeling the vibration of the gun up my arm, retching and doubled over, with Frits’s blood crawling and curling on my tongue.

Out of the darkness the sound of feet running, and again I could not see, or move, everything black at the edges and I was falling even though I wasn’t because somehow I was sitting on a low stretch of tiled wall with my head between my knees looking down at clear red spit, or vomit, on the shiny, epoxy-painted concrete between my shoes and Boris, there was Boris, winded and breathless and bloody, running back in, his voice was coming from a million miles off, Potter, are you all right? he’s gone, I couldn’t catch him, he got away. I drew my palm down my face and looked at the red smear on my hand. Boris was still talking to me with some urgency but even though he was shaking my shoulder it was mostly mouth movements and nonsense through soundproof glass. The smoke from the fired gun was oddly the same bracing ammonia smell of Manhattan thunderstorms and wet city pavements. Robin’s egg speckles on the door of a pale blue Mini. Nearer, creeping dark from under Boris’s car, a glossy satin pool three feet wide was spreading and inching forward like an amoeba, and I wondered how long before it reached my shoe and what I would do when it did. Hard, but without anger, Boris cuffed me with his closed fist on the side of the head: an impersonal clout, no heat about it at all. It was as if he were performing CPR. “Come on,” he said. “Your specs,” he said with a short nod. My glasses—blood-smeared, unbroken—lay on the ground by my foot. I didn’t remember them falling off. Boris picked them up himself, wiped them on his own sleeve, and handed them to me. “Come on,” he said, catching my arm, pulling me up. His voice was level and soothing although he was splattered with blood and I could feel his hands shaking. “All over now. You saved us.” The gunshot had set off my tinnitus like a swarm of locusts buzzing in my ears. “You did good. Now—over here. Hurry.” He led me behind the glassed-in office, which was locked and dark. My camel’s-hair coat had blood on it, and Boris took it off me like an attendant at a coat check, and turned it inside out and draped it over a concrete post. “You will have to get rid of this thing,” he said, with a violent shudder. “Shirt too. Not now—later. Now—” opening a door, crowding in behind me, flipping on a light—“come on.” Dank bathroom, stinking of urinal cakes and urine. No sink, only a bare water spigot and a drain in the floor. “Quick, quick,” said Boris, turning the faucet full pressure. “Not perfection. Just—yeow!” grimacing as he stuck his head under the spout, splashing his face, scrubbing it palm down— “Your arm,” I found myself saying. He was holding it wrong. “Yes yes—” cold water flying everywhere, coming up for air—“he winged me, not bad, only a nick—oh God—” spitting and spluttering—“I should have listened to you. You tried to say! Boris, you said, someone back there! In the kitchen! But did I listen to you? Pay attention? No. That little fucker—the Chinese kid—that was Sascha’s boyfriend! Woo, Goo, I cannot remember his name. Aah—” sticking his head under the faucet again, burbling for a moment as the water streamed over his face—“—bloo! you saved us Potter, I thought we were dead.…”

Standing back, he scrubbed his hands over his face, bright red and dripping. “Okay,” he said, wiping the water out of his eyes, slinging it away, then steering me to the pounding faucet, “now, you. Head under—yes yes, cold!” Pushing me under when I flinched. “Sorry! I know! Hands, face—” Water like ice, choking, it was going up my nose, I’d never felt anything so cold but it brought me around a bit. “Quick, quick,” said Boris, hauling me up. “Suit—dark—doesn’t show. Nothing we can do about the shirt, collar up, here, let me do it. Scarf is in the car, yes? You can wind it around your neck? No no—forget it—” I was shivering, grabbing for my coat, teeth ringing with cold, my whole upper body was soaked through—“well, go ahead, you’ll freeze, just keep it turned to lining side out.” “Your arm.” Though his coat was dark and the light was bad I saw the burnt skid at his bicep, black wool sticky with blood. “Forget it. Is nothing. My God, Potter—” starting back to the car—half running, me hurrying to keep up, panicked at the thought of losing him, of being left. “Martin! That bastard is a bad diabetic, I have been hoping he would die for years. Grateful Dead, I owe you too!” he said, tucking the snub nose in his pocket, then—from the handkerchief pocket of his suit—drawing a bag of white powder which he opened and tossed down in a spray. “There,” he said, dusting his hands off with a lurching back step; he was ash white, his pupils were fixed and even when he looked up at me, he seemed not to see me. “That is all they will be looking for. Martin will be carrying too, all junked up, did you notice? That was why he was so slow— him and Frits too. They were not expecting that call—not expecting to go to work tonight. God—” squeezing his eyes shut—“we were lucky.” Sweaty, dead pale, wiping his forehead. “Martin knows me, he knows what I carry, he was not expecting me to have that other gun and you—they were not thinking of you at all. Get in the car,” he said. “No no—” catching my arm; I was following him to the driver’s side like a sleepwalker—“not there, it’s a mess. Oh—” stopping, cold, an eternity passing in the flickering greenish light— before wobbling around for his own gun on the floor, which he wiped clean with a cloth from his pocket and—holding it carefully, between the cloth— dropped on the ground. “Whew,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “That will confuse them. They will be trying to trace that thing for years.” He stopped, holding his nicked arm with one hand: he looked me up and down. “Can you drive?” I couldn’t answer. Glazed, dizzy, trembling. My heart, after the collision and freeze of the moment, had begun to pound with hard, sharp, painful blows like a fist striking in the center of my chest. Quickly, Boris shook his head, made a tch tch sound. “Other side,” he said, when I, feet moving of their own accord, followed him again. “No no—” leading me back around, opening the front passenger door and giving me a little shove. Drenched. Shivering. Nauseated. On the floor: pack of Stimorol gum. Road map: Frankfurt Offenbach Hanau. Boris had circled around to the car, checking it out. Then, gingerly, he came back to the driver’s side—weaving a bit; trying not to step in blood— and sat behind the wheel and held it with both hands and took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, on a long exhale, talking to himself like a pilot about to take off on a mission. “Buckle up. You too. Brake lights working? Tail lights?” Patting his pockets, sliding up the seat, turning the heater up to High. “Plenty of gas—good. Heated seats too—will warm us up. We can’t be stopped,” he explained. “Because I cannot drive.” All sorts of tiny noises: creak of seat leather, water ticking from my wet sleeve. “Can’t drive?” I said, in the intense ringing silence. “Well, I can.” Defensively. “I have. I—” starting up the car, backing out with his arm along the seat—“well, why do you think I have a driver? Am I this fancy? No. I do have—” upheld forefinger—“drunk-driving conviction.” I closed my eyes to keep from seeing the slumped bloody mass as we

drove past it. “So, you see, if they stop me they will run me in and this is what we do not want to happen.” I could barely hear what he was saying over the fierce buzzing in my head. “You will have to help me out. Like—watch for street signs and keep me from driving in bus lanes. The cycle paths are red here, you are not supposed to drive on them either so help me watch for those too.”

On the Overtoom again, heading back into Amsterdam: Locksmith Sleutelkluis, Vacatures, Digitaal Printen, Haji Telecom, Onbeperkt Genieten, Arabic letters, lights streaking, it was like a nightmare, I was never going to get off this fucking road. “God, I better slow down,” said Boris somberly. He looked glassy and wrecked. “Trajectcontrole. Help me watch for signs.” Blood smear on my cuff. Big fat drops. “Trajectcontrole. That means some machine tells the police you are speeding. They drive unmarked cars, a lot of them, and sometimes they will follow a while before they stop you although—we are lucky—not much traffic out this way tonight. Weekend, I guess, and holiday. This is not exactly Happy Christmas neighborhood out here if you get me. You understand what just happened, don’t you?” said Boris, heaving for breath and scrubbing his nose hard with a gasping sound. “No.” Somebody else talking, not me. “Well—Horst. Both those guys were Horst’s. Frits is maybe only person in Amsterdam he knew to call on such short notice but Martin—fuck.” He was speaking very fast and erratically, so fast he could barely get the words out, and his eyes were flat and staring. “Who even knew Martin was in town? You know how Horst and Martin met, don’t you?” he said, half-glancing at me. “Mental home! Fancy California mental home! ‘Hotel California,’ Horst used to call it! That was back when Horst’s family was still talking to him. Horst was in for rehab but Martin was in because he is really, truly nuts. Like, eyestabber kind of nuts. I have seen Martin do things I really do not like to talk about. I—” “Your arm.” It was hurting him; I could see the tears glittering in his eyes. Boris made a face. “Nyah. This is zero. This is nothing. Aah,” he said, lifting his elbow up so I could wrap the phone charger cable around his arm— I’d yanked it out, wrapped it twice above the wound, tied it tight as I could —“smart you. Good precaution. Thanks! Although, no need really. Just a graze—more bruised than anything, I think. Good this coat is so thick! Clean it out—some antibyotic and something for pain—I’ll be fine. I—” deep shuddering breath—“I need to find Gyuri and Cherry. I hope they went straight to Blake’s. Dima—Dima needs a heads-up too, about the mess in there. He will not be happy—there will be cops, big headache—but it will look random. There is nothing to tie him to this.” Headlights sweeping past. Blood pounding in my ears. There weren’t many cars on the road but every one that passed made me flinch. Boris moaned and dragged his palm across his face. He was saying something, very speedy and agitated. “What?” “I said—this is a mess. I am still figuring it out.” Voice staccato and cracked. “Because this is what I am wondering now—maybe I am wrong, maybe I am paranoid—but maybe Horst knew all along? That Sascha took the picture? Only Sascha brought the picture out of Germany and tries to borrow money on it behind Horst’s back. And then when things go wrong—Sascha panics—who else could he call? of course, I am just thinking out loud, maybe Horst didn’t know Sascha took it, maybe he would never have known if Sascha hadn’t been so careless and dumb as to—Goddamn this fucking ring road,” said Boris suddenly. We had gotten off the Overtoom and were circling around. “Which is the direction I want? Turn on the Nav.” “I—” fumbling around, incomprehensible words, menu I couldn’t read, Geheugen, Plaats, turning the dial, different menu, Gevarieerd, Achtergrond. “Oh, hell. We will try this one. God, that was close,” said Boris, taking the turn a little too fast and sloppy. “You have some minerals, Potter. Frits—Frits was out of it, nodding practically, but Martin, my God. Then you—? Coming around so brave? Hurrah! I did not even think of you there. But there you were! Say you never handled a firearm before?” “No.” Wet black streets. “Well, let me tell you something that will maybe sound funny? But—is a compliment. You shoot like a girl. You know why is a compliment? Because,” said Boris, with a giddy, feverish slur in his voice, “in situation of threat,

male who never fired weapon before and female who never fired weapon before? The female—so Bobo used to say—is much more likely to drop her mark. Most men? want to look tough, have seen too much movies, get too impatient and pop their shot off too fast—Shit,” said Boris suddenly, slamming on the brakes. “What?” “We don’t want this.” “Don’t want what?” “This street is closed.” Throwing the car in reverse. Backing down the street. Construction. Fences with bulldozers behind them, empty buildings with blue plastic tarps in the windows. Stacks of piping, cement blocks, graffiti in Dutch.

“What are we going to do?” I said, in the paralyzed silence that followed, after we’d turned down a different street that seemed to have no streetlights at all. “Well—no bridge here that we can cross. And that’s a dead end, so…” “No, I mean what are we going to do.” “About what?” “I—” My teeth were chattering so hard I could barely get the words out. “Boris, we’re fucked.” “No! We are not. Grozdan’s gun—” awkwardly he patted his coat pocket —“I’ll drop it in the canal. They can’t trace it back to me, if they can’t trace it back to him? And—nothing else to tie us. Because my gun? Clean. No serial. Even the car tires are new! I’ll get the car to Gyuri and he’ll change them tonight. Look here,” said Boris, when I didn’t answer, “don’t worry! We are safe! Shall I say it again? S-A-F-E” (spelling it out clumsily on four fingers). Hitting a pothole, I flinched, unconsciously, a startle reaction, hands flying up to my face. “And why, more than anything? Because we are old friends—because we trust each other. And because—oh God, there’s a cop, let me slow down.” Staring at my shoes. Shoes shoes shoes. All I could think, when I’d put them on a few hours before I hadn’t killed anybody. “Because—Potter, Potter, think about this. Listen for one moment please. What if I was a stranger—someone you did not know or trust? If you were driving from garage now with stranger? Then your life would be chained with a stranger’s forever. You would need to be very very careful with this person, long as you live.” Cold hands, cold feet. Snackbar, Supermarkt, spotlit pyramids of fruit and candy, Verkoop Gestart! “Your life—your freedom—resting on a stranger’s loyalty? In that case? Yes. Worry. Absolutely. You would be in very big trouble. But—no one knows of this thing but us. Not even Gyuri!” Unable to speak, I shook my head vigorously at this, trying to catch my breath. “Who? China Boy?” Boris made a disgusted noise. “Who’s he going to tell? He is underage and not here legally. He does not speak any proper language.” “Boris”—leaning forward slightly; I felt like I was going to pass out —“he’s got the painting.” “Ah.” Boris grimaced with pain. “That is gone, I’m afraid.” “What?” “For good, maybe. I am sick over that—sick in my heart. Because, I hate to say it—Woo, Goo, what’s his name? After what he saw—? All he will think about is himself. Scared to death! People dead! Deportation! He does not want to be involved. Forget about the picture. He has no idea of its true value. And if he finds himself in any kind of fix with the cops? Rather than spend one day in jail even? All he will want is to get rid of it. So—” he shrugged woozily—“let’s hope he does get away, the little shit. Otherwise very good chance the ptitsa will end up thrown in canal—burned.” Streetlights glinting off the hoods of parked cars. I felt disincarnate, cut loose from myself. How it would feel to be back in my body again I couldn’t imagine. We were back in the old city, cobblestone rattle, nocturne monochrome straight out of Aert van der Neer with the seventeenth century pressing close on either side and silver coins dancing on black canal water. “Ach, this is closed,” groaned Boris, jerking to a stop again, backing up the car, “we must find another way.” “Do you know where we are?” “Yes—of course,” said Boris, with a sort of scary disconnected cheerfulness. “That’s your canal over there. The Herengracht.” “Which canal?” “Amsterdam is an easy city to get around,” Boris said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “In the old city all you have to do is follow the canals until—Oh, God, they closed this off too.” Tonal gradations. Weirdly enlivened darks. The small ghostly moon above the bell gables was so tiny it looked like the moon of a different planet, hazed and occult, spooky clouds lit with just the barest tinge of blue and brown.

“Don’t worry, this happens all the time. They are always building something here. Big construction messes. All this—I think is for a new subway line or something. Everyone is annoyed by it. Many accusations of fraud, yah yah. Same in every city, no?” His voice was so blurry he sounded drunk. “Roadwork everywhere, politicians getting rich? That is why everyone rides a bike, it is quicker, only, I am sorry, I am not riding a bicycle anywhere one week before Christmas. Oh no—” narrow bridge, dead halt behind a line of cars—“are we moving?” “I—” We were stopped on a pedestrian footbridge. Visible pink drops on the rain-splashed windows. People walking back and forth not a foot away. “Get out of the car and look. Oh, hang on,” he said impatiently before I could pull myself together; throwing the car into Park, getting out himself. I saw his floodlit back in the headlights, formal and staged-looking amidst billows of exhaust. “Van,” he said, throwing himself back in the car. Slamming the door. Taking a deep breath, bracing his arms out straight against the steering wheel. “What is he doing?” Glancing side to side, panicked, half expecting some random pedestrian to notice the bloodstains, rush at the car, bang at the windows, throw open the door. “How should I know? There are too many cars in this fucking city. Look,” said Boris—sweating and pale in the lurid tail lights of the car in front of us; more cars had pulled up behind, we were trapped—“who knows how long we will be here. We are only few blocks from your hotel. Better you should get out and walk.” “I—” Was it the lights of the car in front of us that made the water drops on the windshield look quite so red? He made an impatient flicking movement of the hand. “Potter, just go,” he said. “I don’t know what is going on with this van up here. I’m afraid the traffic police will show up. Better for us both if we are not together just now. Herengracht—you cannot miss it. The canals here run in circles, you know that, don’t you? Just go that way—” he pointed—“you will find it.” “What about your arm?” “It’s nothing! I’d take off my coat to show you except is too much trouble. Now go. I have to talk to Cherry.” Pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “I may have to leave town for a little while—” “What?” “—but if we don’t speak for a bit, don’t worry, I know where you are. Best if you don’t try to call me or get in touch. I’ll be back soon as I can. Everything will be okay. Go—clean up—scarf around the neck, up high—we will speak soon. Don’t look so pale and ill! Do you have anything on you? Do you need something?” “What?” Scrabbling in his pocket. “Here, take this.” Glassine envelope with a smeared stamp. “Not too much, it is very very pure. Size of a match head. No more. And when you wake up, it will not be quite so bad. Now, remember—” dialing his phone; I was very conscious of his heavy breathing—“keep your scarf high up at your neck and walk on the dark side of the street as much as you can. Go!” he shouted when still I sat there, so loudly that I saw a man on the pedestrian walk of the bridge turn to look. “Hurry up! Cherry,” he said, slumping back in his seat in visible relief and beginning to babble hoarsely in Ukrainian as I exited the car—feeling lurid and exposed in the ghastly wash of headlights from the stalled vehicles—and walked back over the bridge, the way we’d come. My last sight of him, he was talking on the phone with the window rolled down and leaning out, in extravagant clouds of auto fume, to see what was going on with the stalled van ahead.

[merrysithmas]

the museum explosion vs martin incident (parallels)

(another long post)

im still Shook at the fact that literally ALL shell-shocked Theo could say post-Martin until he was forced to leave Boris' side was "Your arm" over and over again (four times ;__;), god he was so terrified to lose him. and he made himself literally feverishly sick worrying about him afterwards.

" 'Boris give it to them!' I stammered, as I stood frozen in horror as the one named Fritz put his pistol to Boris' temple..."

there is a whole passage in that scene, which is struck through with imagery of fire, metallic burning, gunsmoke, and ash, which serves at the bookend for Theo's original fiery trauma at the terror attack in the museum from which Theo has, until that point, been utterly traumatized and stagnated by.

Theo tellingly describes this moment as a "skip in a DVD", a time-jump he isnt entirely cognizant of. he is lurched in that moment from the time period of his psychological fixation and stagnation into the present moment when Boris is in danger. Boris, someone he loves as fiercely as he does his mother and the only character in the book he with certainty would not have known had she lived (if there was no bombing we are led to believe in another parallel perfect life it can be assumed he would have spoken to Pippa and Welty in the gallery and likely would have made friends with them, thus meeting Hobie too. Xandra he likely would have met through Larry, eventually). this juxtaposition between Boris and Audrey is important, in a life or death situation, one Theo can finally control -- which was his lifelong regret and wish.

"It happened before it even happened, like a skip in a DVD throwing me forward in time, because I have no memory at all of picking the pistol up off the floor, only of a kick so hard it threw my arm in the air, I didn't really hear the bang until I felt the kick and the casing flew back and hit me in the face and I shot again eyes half-closed against the noise, my arm jolting with every shot, the trigger had a resistance to it, a stiffness, like pulling a too-heavy door latch, car windows popping and Martin with an arm coming up, exploding safety glass and chunks of concrete flying out a pillar and I got Martin in the shoulder, the soft gray cloth was drenched and dark, a spreading dark stain, cordite smell and deafening echo that drove so deep inside my skull that it was less like actual sound striking my eardrums than a wall slamming down hard in my mind and driving me back into some hard internal blackness from childhood."

in a few paragraphs Theo even compares the garage to Manhattan: "The smoke from the fired gun was oddly the same bracing ammonia smell of Manhattan thunderstorms and wet city pavements". he then goes on to talk about the pool of blood coming towards him, he fears it viscerally, not knowing what he will do if it touches him. unsure what to do now that his personal psychological wounds (symbolized by the blood) are finally exposed, black and tarry on the garage floor, inching towards him with each passing second-- he collapses and sits down.

and finally, Boris picks up Theo's glasses and wipes the blood off of them himself. helps him see clearly again. Boris tells Theo the very important and meaningful and plot heavy words: "All over now. You saved us." while in the very next sentence Theo references how "the gunshot set off my tinnitus like a swarm of locusts buzzing in my ears" -- an injury he obtained during the original explosion in his childhood screaming back, wailing like a wraith (locusts) sent back to hell.

in this scene which bookends Theo's trauma there is also important parallel drawn between Theo's horrifying and fated encounter with the dying Welty and his murder of Martin/Fritz, who we can say are the morbid specters of Theo's guilt and PTSD from Welty (in another analysis you could maybe say Fritz -- who grabs Boris by the hair-- might represent Boris' demons with Boris' own father or both those things, simultaneously for the both of them). Welty and Martin even have similar descriptions to their final injuries, with Theo himself decidedly and with finality causing the former, finally "killing" his demon.

on Welty: "the side of his face was stippled with an ugly spray of burns, and his head, above one ear, was a sickly black horror", "I had the dreamlike sense of having failed him, as if I'd botched some fairy-tale task through clumsiness and ignorance", "his eyes, in the ruined face, were intelligent and despairing", "one papery eyelid, half shut, twitched, a blue-veined tic... his hand in mine was limp." "he coughed a percussive gout of blood that spewed all over me"

on Martin: "and Martin's viper eyes met mine and he was slumped forward... when I shot again and hit him above the eye, red burst that made me flinch", "I was still hearing echos... retching and doubled over, with Fritz's blood crawling and curling on my tongue"

in the same scene we can also draw parallels between Theo's hazardous concussion at the museum, "In a cascade of grit, my hand on some not-quite vertical surface, I stood, wincing at the pain in my head" and his grateful knock back to LIFE (PULLED OUT OF THE PAST) from Boris, "Hard, but without anger, Boris cuffed me with his closed fist on the side of the head: an impersonal clout, no heat about it at all. It was as if he was performing CPR."

and lastly, naturally, we have to point out the fate of The Goldfinch itself in these two scenes to come to a conclusion about Theo's state of mind.

Welty begged of Theo to take the The Goldfinch (his innocence, his childhood, his happiness, his soul) intact from the museum. in his near-death state Welty spoke scatteredly of fond remembrances of the innocence of the children in his own family, intermixing them with the present. he warns Theo to TAKE THE PAINTING! mourns how the perpetrators of the attack (aka Death itself) already ruined so much in the gallery, do not let them take the little bird (Theo) too.

"Don't leave it. No." He was looking past me, trying to point at something. " Take it away from there." ... "I reached out and picked the board up by the edges, it felt surprisingly heavy for something so small.... Drawing my sleeve across the dusty surface. Tiny yellow bird, faint beneath a veil of white dust."

with the martin situation, the painting is lost. Boris even dives into Theo's idealized past (a fixed and escapist/stagnanted past that Boris cannot exist in, represented by the painting, explained in my other meta), risking his own place in Theo's life, trying to rescue it for him.

"I heard the sound of running feet on concrete-- the boy [!!], white coat [like Audrey at the museum] running to the exit [!!] ramp with the painting under his arm, his was running up the ramp to the street, echoes [from Theo's past!!] reverberating in the tiled space", "Boris, there was Boris, winded and breathless and bloody, running back in, his voice was coming from a million miles off [he dove into Theo's idealized past, self-sacrificing], Potter, are you alright? he's gone, I couldn't catch him, he got away"

long story short... the explosion and the Martin scene are narratively paralleled in a way that shows Theo can overcome (some) of his past fixation and Boris is pivotally present in the second scene as someone Theo rescues, his most-valued person next to his mother. Theo willingly gives up The Goldfinch for him, being solely concerned about Boris' safety thereafter, terrified he gave it up, exposed himself to himself, the truth, put it all on the line, and Boris might not make it--

--which he realizes without any real thought but instead pure spontaneous emotion, would crush him more than the loss of the painting (and all that it represents) ever could.

[augfc]

In-depth: the MCEM series

During the closing stages of World War II, when an Allied victory was certain, the British Army started looking for a replacement for the Sten gun. The Ordnance Board commissioned the Royal Small Arms Factory at Enfield to create such a weapon. The Design Department at Enfield began work on a project that they dubbed the Military Carbine, Experimental Model (MCEM) around April 1945. Six MCEM prototypes were made at Enfield and two in Australia.

At the time, Enfield employed many foreign engineers who had fled their native countries during Nazi occupation. Consequently the Design Department was segregated by nationality. French and Belgian designers such as Georges Laloux and Dieudonné Saive were assigned to work on rifles. They designed the SLEM-1, which would later evolve into the FN-49, and early FAL prototypes in .280 caliber. The British rifle designers were headed by Stanley Thorpe and produced the EM-1 rifle, meanwhile a team of Polish designers who were headed by Stefan Janson produced the EM-2.

The SLEM-1 developed by Saive at Enfield. This rifle, along with the FAL, was designed in Britain and manufactured at FN Herstal in Belgium after the war.

The EM-2 rifle designed by Janson. Chambered in .280 caliber and briefly adopted before being replaced by the FN FAL.

There were two teams working on submachine guns: a British team headed by Harold Turpin, the co-designer of the Sten, and a Polish team headed by a Lt. Podsenkowski. There was a considerable rivalry that developed between the two teams.

The British team finished their initial prototype first. It was therefore dubbed the MCEM-1. The design was basically an upgraded Sten with a machined steel body and right-hand cocking. When the bolt retracted fully, it would hit a spring cylinder which would grip onto the bolt until the force of the return spring pushed it back. This system was designed to keep the fire rate low. The weapon also had a removable wooden buttstock that slotted into the hollow tubular grip. The magazine was actually two 20-round box magazines welded together side-by-side.

The MCEM-1. This was the first MCEM prototype completed, designed by Turpin.

Shortly afterward the Polish team finished their first prototype. Since it was the second weapon in the project to be completed, it was named the MCEM-2. It was completely unlike the MCEM-1 and very unlike any submachine gun produced in Britain before. It utilized a wrap-around bolt system: the bolt was hollow and was 8 inches in length. The firing pin was fixed. The bolt would engulf the 7 inch barrel upon firing and the return spring was located behind the bolt. When the bolt retracted, the rod ejector protruded through the bolt face. The weapon was cocked by inserting a finger into the small cocking slot which was located above the muzzle. The ejection port was located underneath, in front of the trigger.

The MCEM-2 was very small and handled more like a machine pistol than a submachine gun. It had a detachable skeleton stock with canvas covering and could be fired one-handed easily. The fire rate was about 1000rpm, which was considered much too excessive by the Ordnance Board. Additionally, the magazine size was only 18 rounds. It barely satisfied the General Staff Specifications and therefore it was decided that the design should be improved.

The MCEM-2 designed by Podsenkowski. Very unconventional for its time. It failed to meet most of the General Staff Specifications.

Detail of the MCEM-2′s bolt.

The MCEM-3 was the next to be completed and was simply an improved model of the MCEM-1 designed to meet General Staff Specifications. The fire rate moderator was scrapped and the cocking slot was moved to the left side. The double magazine was replaced by a single curved 20-round magazine and bayonet fittings were added.

The MCEM-3. Basically a modified MCEM-1 developed to meet General Staff Specifications. The Ordnance Board saw potential in the design.

The MCEM-4 was designed by Lt. Kulikowski, who had developed the Sten Mk.IIS for the Special Operations Executive. The MCEM-4 was a silenced weapon and may well have been a modification of the MCEM-2. The MCEM-5, on the other hand, is a mystery. No records pertaining to it remain. There is reference to a “Sparc” gun that could have been the MCEM-5. There is also the possibility that the Viper machine pistol designed by Derek Hutton-Williams was the MCEM-5 but this seems less likely.

The MCEM-6 was the last model to be produced and was, as requested, an upgraded version of the MCEM-2 designed to meet General Staff Specifications. It was designed by Lt. Ichnatowicz and Lt. Podsenkowski. The barrel length was extended by one inch and bayonet fittings were added. The bolt was increased in weight to reduce the fire rate to 600rpm.

The Viper machine pistol by Derek Alfred Hutton-Williams. This may have been the MCEM-5 but it is unlikely. It used MP-40 magazines.

The MCEM-6 designed by Podsenkowski and Ichnatowicz. The stock was actually hollow and covered by a sheet of canvas.

Enfield reviewed the weapons and decided to submit the MCEM-2, the MCEM-3 and the MCEM-6 to the Ordnance Board for testing. These tests took place in September 1946 and the MCEM-2 was found to be unsatisfactory. The Ordnance Board showed the most interest in the MCEM-3 and therefore Enfield withdrew the MCEM-6 from trials to focus efforts on the MCEM-3.

Meanwhile, a separate MCEM project was conducted in Australia. The context was this: on May 6th 1943, the Australian Army sent out a questionnaire to combat veterans pertaining to features they would like to see in a new service weapon. It covered the position of the magazine, cocking handle, type of stock, sighting, et cetera. The results were examined by a design team headed by Major Eric Hall and a prototype was developed to meet the feedback. The resultant weapon was known as the Kokoda. It was basically an Owen gun with redesigned ergonomics. The magazine fed into the pistol grip because of the 1500 replies to the survey, 1293 preferred the magazine below and only 163 preferred the top-feed system of the Owen. It also had a sliding wireframe buttstock taken from an M3 Grease gun. The Kokoda was tested in Australia and was not satisfactory so further modifications were made.

The Kokoda developed in Australia by Major Eric Hall, based on the Owen gun. It was prone to overheating.

The modified Kokoda was known as the MCEM-1. This is often a cause for confusion and a lot of people assume that the Australian MCEM-1 was in fact the first model MCEM made at Enfield. This is not the case. The Australian MCEM project and the MCEM project at Enfield were completely separate.

The MCEM-1, unlike the Kokoda, had left-hand cocking and a redesigned trigger. Major Hall took the MCEM-1 to the UK to arouse interest over there. It was submitted to the Ordnance Board for testing and the initial trials took place at Pendine from the 8th to the 16th of September 1947. The other weapons tested were the Sten Mk.V, the Patchett Mk.2, the Enfield MCEM-3 and the BSA Mk.2. Both the MCEM-1 and the MCEM-3 overheated badly. The MCEM-3 burned the hand of the firer, whereas the MCEM-1′s welds holding the trigger housing to the body completely fractured. It was sent back to Australia for improvements to be made, but Major Hall stayed in England to work at Enfield, where he developed the experimental EM-3 rifle in .303 rimless. The MCEM-3, on the other hand, was eliminated from trials because the Ordnance Board did not think it was worth developing any further. Enfield cancelled their MCEM project and focused on machine guns and rifles.

The Australian MCEM-1 designed by Major Hall.

The Australian MCEM-2. This was not developed by Major Hall and was a detail improvement of the MCEM-1 to meet General Staff Specifications.

The Australian MCEM-1 was improved as the MCEM-2 and was developed to meet the new General Staff Specifications. It had a new cocking system that featured a ribbed cocking sleeve on the right side. A large flash eliminator was added to the muzzle as well as bayonet fittings. The rear sight was replaced with an adjustable tangent sight. Ergonomics were improved with new grips. The MCEM-2 was tested in military trials in May 1951 and competed against the Patchett Mk.2, the BSA Mk.3, and the Madsen M50. The MCEM-2 had ejection issues and once again fractured. It was not considered an acceptable service weapon and was rejected. The Patchett gun was adopted as the L2A1 after some consideration.

[historicalfirearms]

Weekly Recap

When I first started Historical Firearms back in 2013 I tried to recap each week but that quickly fell by the wayside and I tried to recap every month. Well its a new year and I thought I’d try and recap weekly again! The idea is just to recap everything posted during the week in case people missed something. 

This week had everything from interesting field expediencies to Swiss experimental pistols and an automatic double barrelled shotgun. Check out the full round-up below.

Thanks again for following, reading and supporting HF.  If you enjoy the content please consider supporting Historical Firearms through Patreon! As always if you have any questions, suggestions feel free to send me a message here.

Pistols: 

Experimental Waffenfabrik Bern Pistole 43

Swiss Modell 1882 Ordnance Revolver

Bergmann Bayard M1910/21

Rifles:

Shooting the Mk II** Snider Short Rifle at Longer Ranges

In Action: L1A1 with L4 Magazine

Submachine Guns:

Viper Machine Pistol

Experimental Second Model .32 ACP Owen Submachine Gun 

Light Machine Gun:

Solothurn Maschinengewehr Modell 30

Shotgun:

John T. Thompson’s Double Barrelled Automatic Shotgun

Quotes of the Day

[smithwilliamsus]

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[designer2017fashion-blog]

Ruger M77 Hawkeye Bolt-Action Rifle

Ruger M77 Hawkeye Bolt-Action Rifle

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Sightmark Photon XT 4.6х42S Digital Night Vision Rifle Scope

RedHead Classic Shell Apron

Smith & Wesson 60LS LadySmith Double-Action Revolver

Beretta B1 Signature Takedown Gun Case

Beretta Waxwear Gun Case with Wraparound Folder Closure

Magpul Magazines - PMAG 10 LR/SR GEN M3, 7.62x51 Magazine

CMMG 25 Round .22 LR Magazine for Converted 5.56 MSR

Benelli Nova Black/Synthetic Pump-Action Shotgun

Savage 64F Semi-Auto Rimfire Rifle - Muddy Girl Camo

Savage A17 Semi-Auto Rimfire Rifle

Stack-On Directional Security Light

Pursuit Compact Binoculars

Magpul PMAG 30 AR/M4 Gen M2 MOE Magazine

Walther Special Operations PPQ Spring Airsoft Pistol

Gobblin' Thunder Choke Tubes

FN Herstal® FNX-9 Pistol - Black

Nikon ProStaff 5 Rifle Scope

Armasight Nemesis Gen 2+ SD Night Vision Rifle Scope

Fobus USA GLT19 Tactical Holster

Winchester Platinum Tip Handgun Ammo

Dewey Brass Cleaning Rod Adapter

RangeMaxx Bandoleer Holster

Benelli Montefeltro Silver Semi-Auto Shotgun

Federal Premium Personal Defense .410 Shotshells

Traditions PA Pellet .50 Caliber Flintlock Muzzleloader

Colt Expanse M4 Carbine Semi-Auto Rifle

Browning Santa Fe Padded Leather Rifle Sling

Beretta A400 Xplor Action Semi-Auto Shotgun

Aguila Competition Standard Velocity Shotshells

Remington UMC Leadless Handgun Ammo

Great Day CL15021 Center-Lok Tactical Overhead Gun Rack

Daisy Powerline Premium 12 Gram CO2 Cylinders for Air Guns

Browning X-Bolt Stalker Bolt-Action Rifle

Hoppe's M-Pro 7 Tactical Soft-Sided Gun Cleaning Kit

GLOCK G35 Semi-Auto Pistol

American Furniture Classics The Gunfather Clock

Nikon Monarch 7i Rangefinder

RedHead Adjustable Powder Measure

GrovTec Mil-Force Sling Swivel

Champion In-Sight Shooting Target

Hornady Superformance Buckshot Shotshells

Plano XXL Sportsman's Trunk