.300BLK

 

The sun is setting. I'm in the backyard with my mom. She’s having a beer. I’m using a DeWalt driver and a tube cutter to convert 5.56 brass to .300BLK.

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My mom narrows her eyes and covers them with her free hand. 'Oh here comes Wally.' Wally is her neighbor’s dog, an ancient golden retriever who’s blind and deaf. He'll wander into the yard and go through the fire pit to look for sticks to eat.

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'Snack time,' my mom says. She swipes a yellow jacket away from her face. 'He seems to like the ones towards the bottom.’

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‘The seasoned ones.’

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‘The seasoned ones.’

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I turn and watch. Wally has his head deep in the pile. Eventually he surfaces, chewing the fuck out of a stick, doing this demented smile as snapped pieces fall from his mouth. Then he sneezes. Sneezes again. Picks a piece of burnt stick off the ground and continues snapping.

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I remove chopped brass from the chuck and drop it into a plastic cup. Clink. My mom takes a sip of her beer. She swipes at the yellow jacket again.

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'Goddamn things.'

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I watch the yellow jacket fly away, do a little circle, and head back at us. And that's the difference between them and the bees/others. The yellow jackets really want it. They’re ready to die. It’s victory or death.

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This time, it starts fucking with me, hovering close. So I put the DeWalt down, hold my hands up.

 

‘Here, use the swatter or it’s gonna bite you.’

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But choices have been made. I’m too focused. Tracking its path and waiting for the perfect distance. ‘It’s victory or death,’ I say.

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My mom laughs.

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I clap the yellow jacket and it falls to the concrete, writhing one slow writhe then dead. I grab the DeWalt again, put a piece of brass in the chuck and proceed to chop the neck off just below the shoulder. The nights are finally getting cooler now, which is nice. And I’ll tell you this, I love making my mom laugh.