Target practice

MARCH 24TH, 2009
5:00 PM

BAM!

The loud rifle crack sounded through the empty forest, birds scattering in the late afternoon air.

In a clearing, Groggy Dundee was engaging in habitual target practice. He had always been an abominable shot, but was trying his best to change that. But in 14 shots with a Mannlicher-Carcano, he had only scored 4 decent hits. It wasn't the rifle, as the conspiracy theorists would have it; it was the shooter. He just plain sucked.

As he worked the bolt with angry frustration, his adjutant, Sergeant Harriman, came up behind him. She winced as Groggy fired his rifle, then squinted at the target.

"Who are we shooting at today, Major?" Harriman said.

She scarcely needed to ask. She could see the face of Vladimir Putin, pock-marked by four bullet holes, pinned up to the target.

"You are a provocative individual, sir," Harriman noted dryly.

"Russia is no position to be speaking of provocation," the Major said, eyes fixed on the chamber of his rifle. He loaded another clip into the magazine and took aim. "Who forced them to invade Georgia?" He fired; the shot missed completely. "Fuck." The bolt click-clicked as he took aim again. "Who's rattling sabers in Moldova?" BAM! "Fuck." Click-click. "Who's trying to set up military bases in Cuba?" BAM!

This time, the Major hit his target, striking Putin on the right cheek. The hit released some of his aggravation, and he more carefully worked the bolt this time. "I'M not provoking anyone," he continued, eyes still on his target. He took slow, deliberate aim at the Prime Minister, the ex-KGB fucker who was returning to Russia to a state of Tsardom.

BAM!

The shot struck Putin right between the eyes.

"Bullseye, sir," Sergeant Harriman commented.

"The Empire of Russia refuses to recognize the self-determination of Eastern Europe?" Groggy continued, now in full lecture mode. "As the leaders of the Free World, are we not obligated to stand up for countries who demand self-determination?"

Sergeant Harriman said nothing; geo-politics was not her area of expertise.

The Major fired again, striking Putin on the chin. He then put down the old Italian carbine and picked up an even more ancient weapon - a Springfield 1903.

In the distance, the target went down and a new one came up in its place. Sergeant Harriman squinted to see who it might be. It was the President, Dimitri Medevev.

As the Major took aim, he made one final comment. "The Monroe Doctrine, we must not forget the Monroe Doctrine either!" Then he fired again, striking the puppet President square in the jaw.

"Now, what is it you wanted to see me for, Anna?" he said, finally turning to his old friend and aide.

"Just received a text message, sir," Harriman reported. "You're to report to Washington immediately for a meeting with Secretary Gates."

"Gates?" Now Harriman had her commander's attention.

"Yes, sir."

Groggy looked perplexed. "Does it say why?" he asked.

Harriman shrugged. "An order from Sec. Def. is an order from Sec. Def.," she said evenly.

Groggy stared off absently, fondling the rifle in his hand. This could mean either one of two things. He was receiving a commission to fight in a war everyone knew was coming... or he was being sacked. Either way, it was a reckoning.

Groggy suddenly snapped to attention and fired the rest of his clip. All four shots shredded Medevev's face.

A satisfied grin crossed Groggy's face. He turned to his subordinate and said dryly, "NOW Russia has something to worry about!" Harriman only smiled. The two walked out of the clearing, as the sun began to lower into the far horizon.