CHAOS IN CALIFORNIA GUN CLUB!

MEMBERS PANIC AS AN UNARMED COUPLE IS SPOTTED!

Police in Glenfarthy, California descended in force on the “Stand Your Ground Gun Club” shooting range after panicked members began calling 911 to report unarmed terrorists invading their “campus.” WWN was on the scene.

We learned that the club was leased to a local social group,

“The Arrogant Snots.”

By the time the police arrived, 13 members had been shot. Medevac units descended around our entourage, preparing to load the victims to safety. The rest of the police began interviewing those left behind, including a frantic man wearing primitive war paint and pair of $6K Air Jordans. Lt. Rip Masters, my companion, was constantly given sheaves of paper resulting from the ongoing interviews.

“It wasn’t our fault,” yelled Gun Club Manager and Head Snot, Rinaldo O’Leary, aged 27, scuffing his Air Jordans as he kicked the dirt. “They started it! We were peacefully going about our business, shooting the Hell out of our targets, when these two unarmed people showed up! Hippies! We hit the panic button. Wouldn’t you? We didn’t know what they were capable of.”

As he spoke, Lt. Masters began perusing the just-taken notes. His expression was inscrutable. Was he laughing? Was he crying?

Meanwhile, Head Snot Rinaldo was breathing hard enough to successfully recreate the sound of an accordion. “I mean, they were invaders! They could have exposed us to Covid-19, Legionnaire’s Disease or Vegan Food! Or try to mind-meld with us! We called the cops, immediately.

“For all we knew, this was just the first wave of anti-ammo anarchists…the AAA.”

A wounded club-member leaning against his Maserati MC20 nearly gasped. “Nononono, the AAA is our friends!”

Head Snot Rinaldo ignored him. “Imagine how that makes us feel? Unarmed people are out there, millions of them. They’re a threat to our lifestyle. We had to do something!”

“THIS IS THE FIRST CRIME SCENE WHERE ALL OF THE VICTIMS WERE FEET.”

Once the two “terrorists” descended upon the area, panicked Snots began shooting at anything that startled them, injuring 13 of their own.

Sgt. Masters finished shuffling through the papers. His cell phone rang. He picked up. “Hold on, now.”

Sgt. Masters began to laugh, alluding to the notes and what was on his phone screen. “This is really one of the most idiotic crime scenes I’ve ever seen. These guys had enough weaponry up here to engage in a firefight in Iraq.”

He punched a button his cellphone, holding it up to us.

“They were actually shooting each other while screaming gibberish. It sounds like Saturday morning cartoons. You can’t even make out any words. It’s all sort of ‘gnagh-gnagh-gnagh,’ ‘ka-pew ka-pew ka-pew’ and ‘budda-budda-buda.’

“This is also the first crime scene where all of the victims were feet. These guys were actually standing there, shooting each other in the feet. One guy outdid himself, toppling over from the kick of his semi-auto and took down a twenty-foot tree-limb…which landed on six hopping people who’d already shot themselves in the feet.”

He shut off the phone and heaved a colossal sigh. “We’ve just located our terrorists. If you want to have a sad laugh? Come with me.”

WWN followed Lt. Rip Masters. “It wasn’t hard to locate these ‘hippie terrorists,’” he explained. “They were sitting, in their tye-died outfits, next to their off-road bikes. They were watching it all go down. Had a picnic spread out. Their bikes actually had streamers and balloons on them. It wasn’t like this was a covert terrorist operation. You could spot them coming a mile away, especially up here in the hill country.”

MEET THE TERRORISTS

The Lieutenant introduced WWN to the terrorists: Frodo and Butterfly Blatz, both 73-years-old.

“My goodness, how these hills have changed,” said Frodo. “This used to be an arts community. No slices of suburbia injected into the hills and mountains back then. And guys with guns shooting at targets of politicians? Seriously? Although, as an artist myself, I found myself impressed with some of the painting.”

He then turned towards Butterfly. “We came up here to celebrate our 50^th anniversary. We used to come here, birding.”

Butterfly taps her binoculars. “This is where Frodo proposed to me. Of course, back then, there were birds up here and not hot lead.”

The couple watched as the Medevac helicopters took the last of the wounded away. “Bummer,” sighed Frodo. “Still,” he adds. “Those guys need some adjustments below the hairline. I would hate to be anyone who has to knock on their front door as part of my job. Is the Post Office going to create SWAT teams? Will overnight delivery require flak-jackets?”

Later, when the remaining members of the gun club were led away by police for their statements and possible charges, the Blatzes remained seated. Frodo turned on a boombox. “We’re going to listen to some John Lennon, smoke a little dope and hold hands,” he announced to all. “And, maybe…. wish this place was as it used to be.”

Nearby, a bird began to sing.

“Is that a Warbler?” Frodo asked.

Butterfly grasped her binoculars. “Could be a Flycatcher!”

They walked off, “Imagine” playing, as the police led the rest of the Gun Club’s membership away.

Head Snot Rinaldo was weeping, now, making himself limp as four cops tried to ladle him into the back of a squad car.

“Don’t trust those people!” he yelled. “They’re out to destroy all we stand for!”

At that point, a bird crapped on his face.

“Warbler?” Frodo asked.

“Maybe a Fly-catcher,” Butterfly smiled.