Mike (Centercut) and I were out in the hills SE of San Diego this morning. We’ve both been kinda isolated like everyone, so this was a welcome outing. Stopped by a rancher friend and Mike fixed his gun then a brief walk around but not a single GS, Wabbie, or varmint of any kind stirring.
On to the new range Mike was setting up. We had new target stands, a gong, benches etc to arrange.
That done we got down to it.
Mike gave me a morfadyte Mongolian Polish front rest to try and soon was in hysterics as things fell apart. I could not hit s***! He’s spanking the new gong with his cannon then switches to the AOA fully automatic .25 and just punishes the brand new gong. It now looks like a 100 year old pipe from under NYC sewer or the pockmarked face of Mafia hitman.
I’ve thrown my front rest thingy away and moved off the wobbly bench(my bad) and brought out the .22 Bobcat. Not been shot for 90 days so needed a tweek.
“Ok Nick you ready to play Battleship?” “Sure thing lets go”. He’s red I’m green. He has his full auto blaster in .25 but auto is turned off. “I’m giving you a break” says Mike. He misses his first shot. Boy that’s not normal. I go next and the Bobcat scratches his eyes out. One to nothin my favor. Hot poop now its on!
New target goes up and the machine gun goes into its case and out comes the Vulcan .30 all dolled up like pimps prized employee. Wind is up now and my little .22 is struggling at 66 yards. The street walker Vulcan not only beats the snot out a me but the .35 plug he uses against my .22 plug is simply cruel. All my ships sunk like Trafalgar spanked the Franco/Spanish fleet. A humiliating, and beastly act!
Next time I’m ready.
