Guns are big talk in the U.S., and certainly elsewhere. Full disclosure: Although I’m a qualified liberal, I hold a concealed-carry permit where I live. I believe in the Second Amendment of the United States Constitution, but I also believe in common-sense regulation, which will only ensure that we reduce the number of nut jobs who have guns. Yes, they can still get them, but there’s an old adage I like: Locks keep an honest man honest. Without them, how many honest men would be dishonest? And without regulations, how many more people might well be out there itching to pull a trigger?

“The Right to Bear Arms”
Science Fiction (dystopian)
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Deke was flaming mad, and he hadn’t shut up about it for three days.

“I’m tellin’ you, they best clear me to buy that Greenstar Bad Blaster 5000,” he told Jimmy for the umpteenth time.

“I know,” Jimmy said, because he wasn’t bored of hearing his friend complain about it. He slugged back some more beer. “Ain’t like you don’t already got plenty of guns.”

“Yeah, but this one’s the big one,” Deke said, and guzzled a swig of his own. “I’ve shot some big guns, but not like this.”

“The Greenstar Bad Blaster 5000 is friggin’ awesome,” Jimmy said, sounding as scholarly as he could.

They sat on the silver hood of Deke’s truck, under the stars of a clear night sky. The Moon glowed yellow in the sky, reflecting off the bright sheen of the hood. There were eight empty beer cans on the ground around the truck. The truck was a Grand Nebula Z750.

Deke checked his wrist computer. “Nuttin’ yet.”

“They gotta tell you within thirty-six hours,” Jimmy protested. “It’s your right! They can’t friggin’ inconvenience you when you have a friggin’ right to that gun!”

“I know, that’s what I’m sayin’!” Deke hollered. “They got like twenty minutes. I’d best get my God damn gun approved in the next twenty, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Damn straight,” Jimmy said.  He downed the last of the can, belched, crushed it, and reached for another one. “This twelve-pack’s almost gone. We’re almost out of beer.” He sounded alarmed. It was never good to be that close to running out of beer.

“If I don’t get my gun, they’ll be sorry,” Deke said, ignoring him. “I mean, I own a lot of guns. I got nothin’ like a Greenstar Bad Blaster 5000, but big fuckin’ guns just the same. I could fuck them up in good shape. And I should—they ain’t messin’ with my Second Amendment right, God damn it.”

“Blow them the fuck up.”

“I mean, I get their point, cuz of course the Greenstar Bad Blaster 5000 is serious shit. But I have a right, you know. They ain’t takin’ my right away. They have to give me the gun. I don’t see how they can deny me.”

As if on cue, his wrist computer beeped. He checked it, read the message, and then whooped excitedly.

“Approved!” he said, leaping off the hood of the silver truck. “Send it to me, bitches!”

He keyed in something as Jimmy jumped down to join him, even as the air shimmered and a light gleamed from apparently nowhere. It flashed and vanished, and on the grass sat the Greenstar Bad Blaster 5000. It was black and chrome, about four feet long and hefty. Deke roared his approval as he picked it up and brandished it, resting the butt on his hip and pointing it skyward.

“How do I look?” he cried out with glee.

“Fuckin’ awesome!” Jimmy hollered. “’Course, you can’t use it til you watch the video.”

“Yeah, I know,” Deke said, sounding dismayed. “Okay, play video.”

A hologram appeared in the air before them—a woman with big breasts and wide hips, with long dark hair and wearing a skintight outfit that left little to the imagination. The two men hooted and whistled their approval.

“Greetings, new Greenstar Bad Blaster 5000 owner,” said the apparition in a voice that oozed sexuality. “You’ve purchased the most powerful firearm allowed by law.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Deke crooned to the gun in his hands.

“Gun ownership is a right, but you’re required to use this weapon responsibly,” she continued. “Records show that you own many powerful weapons, but nothing like this. Do you promise to use it wisely and safely?”

“Sure,” Deke said, smirking at Jimmy, who guffawed in return.

“You are cleared to use the Greenstar Bad Blaster 5000,” the sexy woman said with a seductive smile. “Enjoy.”

She vanished in a flash of light, and the Greenstar Bad Blaster 5000 powered up in Deke’s hands, humming and whirring. The power plant in the butt glowed orange.

“What say we try this baby out?” Deke said.

“Yeah!” Jimmy cried.

They rushed to the truck. The Grand Nebula Z750 was big and powerful, and, as soon as the doors were sealed, Deke fired up the engine. It hummed to life, hovering above the ground, and when he hit the accelerator, it rocketed into the sky. The friends yee-hahed their way into orbit, which they attained inside of two minutes. When the blue marble of Earth was silently turning below them, Deke said, “Where should we try it out? Asteroid belt?”

“Hell, yeah,” Jimmy said. “This thing can vaporize a rock a mile across.”

“I heard some guy went nuts and shot up New York City last year,” Deke said. “Fired a hundred shots and took out more buildings than you can imagine. Killed two thousand people.”

“Can’t stop crazy people from bein’ crazy,” Jimmy said. “That don’t mean they can take our guns away.”

“Hey, let’s go shoot up a mountain on the Moon,” Deke said, grinning from ear to ear.

“Ain’t that illegal?”

“Who’s gonna know? We stay away from bases and colonies, and they’ll find a ruined mountain tomorrow.”

Jimmy grinned. “Let’s do it!”

Deke kicked the truck into powerdrive, and the cruiser rocketed towards the Moon.

“The Right to Arm Bears”
Science Fiction (social SF)
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Sport hunting is a right, they all said. They argued it for years.

Even after the geneticists found a way to use nanobots to alter animals’ brains so the animals had human intelligence and sentience, the die-hard hunters argued that they were still fair hunting game.

The animals didn’t take to that too well. But they were smart, and fought it in the courts—locally, nationally, worldwide. They lost.

But they were still allowed the same rights to own firearms, and they exercised those rights.

The bears were the first ones. Their paws were unlike those of other animals, and they could wield guns meant for human hands.

Once the bears were armed, everyone started thinking a little differently about the hunting thing.

“The Right to Bare Arms”
Science Fiction (dystopian)
By David M. Fitzpatrick

She walked down the street, proud and alone. She was pretty, with a petite body shown off by a short skirt, and a heart-shaped face framed by yellow pigtails. Her arms were exposed by the tank top she wore. She was aware of people pointing and whispering in alarm at the tattoos on her arms. She didn’t care. It was her right to dress the way she wanted, and to have tattoos that said whatever she wanted.

She ran into the armed stranger a few blocks down in the city. He had two big guns slung on his hips, a true urban gunslinger—not needing any sort of permit, because his right to carry wasn’t regulated at all, like it had been in the old days.

He blocked her path, forcing her to stop. She tried to sidestep him, but he blocked her again.

“Let me pass,” she said.

“I’m offended by your tattoos,” he said, his voice bordering on a snarl. She was covered in tattoos, but he was clearly annoyed at the ones on her arms.

She looked down at them. “They don’t need your approval.”

His right hand moved to rest on his holstered gun, and she felt terror wash over her. Would he actually do it? She’d expected a reaction, but not this.

“They offend me,” he said.

“That doesn’t give you the right to shoot me,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. It shook anyway.

“Maybe it does,” the stranger said.

“I have the freedom of speech and the freedom of religion. They’re protected rights.”

“Those rights were amended. Your speech and religious beliefs can’t infringe on others. Those tattoos infringe upon my beliefs.”

“They’re just tattoos,” she said, her voice cracking. “Just because you don’t agree with them doesn’t mean that they infringe on your beliefs.”

She watched as he studied them closely. She didn’t have to look; she knew them well. RELIGION IS A LIE, said the one running down the length of her right arm. THERE ARE NO GODS, said the one running down her left. She clasped her hands behind her, waiting on his next move.

“They offend me,” he said again, harsher and louder. “Your speech and your atheism are secondary to my beliefs and my worship of God. And my Second Amendment right allows me to punish you.”

And the gunslinger drew.

He was fast, almost superhumanly fast. But she was faster. Her hand had already been wrapped around the butt of her weapon, tucked in the back of her pants, and she whipped it around and fired. The gunslinger was caught by surprise as he toppled over onto his back. She stood over him, her gun smoking, as he bled out on the sidewalk, gurgling and looking up at her with wide eyes.

“Your kind might have been able to amend our rights to place limitations on our speech and religion,” she said, “but even you couldn’t change the fact that the Second Amendment applies to everyone.”

“The Arms to Bear, Right?”
Science Fiction (dystopian)
By David M. Fitzpatrick

“You’ve served thirty years of a life sentence, Justin Bates,” said the parole-board officer in a concrete room with barred windows. “Your crime was that you shot a man in cold blood. Are you rehabilitated?”

“Yes, sir,” Justin said as several armed men stood guard in the room. “I think about my crime every day. Drugs, alcohol, the gang… it was a different time in my life. I wish I’d never done it. I wish I could take it back.”

They discussed the finer details for another five minutes, but the end result was that he was released on parole.

“Good luck out there, man,” said Cedric, his cellmate. “You know, you lose rights now that you’re an ex-con. Like you can’t vote. And you’re on public records as someone who shot a man to death.”

“I’ll handle it,” Justin said.

He went through processing and did all the formalities. On his way out, he was given his personal effects from the day he’d arrived thirty years before. It was a real trip down Memory Lane.

“One pair of Levi’s jeans,” said the officer.

“Those will feel great after years in prison clothes,” Justin said.

“Underwear, socks,” said the guard. “Leather jacket. Ring of keys in the pocket.”

“I love that jacket,” Justin said. “Man, it will be good to be back on the street in my clothes. And those keys—they don’t open anything anymore!”

“Pack of cigarettes,” the guard said.

“Stale. Get to the good stuff.”

“White T-shirt,” said the guard, holding it up with the prominent red splotches, now maroon. “Stained with blood.”

“Yeah, wow,” Justin said. “From the night I shot the guy. Weird.”

“Sneakers, also blood-stained.”

“Yeah, I walked through the blood coming out of his neck,” Justin said. “Forget that. The good stuff, man. Gimme the good stuff.”

The guard glared at him, then sighed. He reached in, pulled it out.

“One forty-five-caliber handgun,” said the guard, holding up the weapon with a thumb and finger, as if it were poisonous. “Ten-shot clip. Only four rounds remaining.”

“I put six into the guy,” Justin said, taking possession of his beloved weapon.

“Giving a gun murderer his weapon back,” said the guard, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “I know the gun-rights people got the laws changed a long time ago, but… just seems wrong.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong about it,” said Justin with a smile. “I’ve done my time. And owning that gun, brother—that’s my right.”

“The Right Arms to Bear”
Science Fiction
By David M. Fitzpatrick

The militia reviewed the film for training purposes. On the screen, the gunman used all his training to accomplish his mission. The viewers were enthralled as the soldier’s expert military skills.

“Tactically excellent,” said one of them. “His use of cover is extraordinary.”

They watched some more. Bullets flew. The soldier, armed but not wearing body armor, avoided the feeble attempts of his opponents to fire back. He was like a machine.

“They’re outmatched,” said another one of them. “This guy was so damn good. They never stood a chance.”

“We can learn a lot from him,” another said. “Watch this next maneuver.”

The gunman on the screen changed clips faster than anyone had ever seen, and had a hundred rounds ready. Then he burst around the corner, where several gunmen of lesser training were waiting. The soldier went down to his knees firing, and he took out his three opponents. Then he advanced to the next stage of the combat. He opened fire, taking out even more.

“Unbelievable,” said one of them. “Incredible tactics. This guy was amazing.”

“Not amazing enough,” said another. “Here it comes.”

The soldier met his match in the next segment, when a police officer got the drop on him—right between the eyes. The soldier went down.

“Damn, that was something,” one of the men said. “What was his final stats?”

“Four armed security guards,” another reported. “Eleven teachers. Forty-three students — half of the third grade.”

“Well, the loss of life is tragic,” one of them said. “But at least there were plenty of cameras. We can make some good out of this by learning from the man’s excellent tactics and strategy.”

The group bubbled with excitement as they began making notes.

“The Rite to Bear Arms”
Science Fiction
By David M. Fitzpatrick

“I want a gun,” said young Tommy.

“Then you have to undergo The Rite,” his father said. “You’ll have to go out into the Northern Wildlands and shoot a Creature. If you can kill one and bring back its head, you’ll earn a gun.”

“I can do it, Dad!” Tommy said, excited. He’d do anything to earn a gun. They looked like such fun!

They went that weekend, chartering a shuttle to fly them up to the Northern Coldlands. The pilot reported tracking an entire community of Creatures, so they put down a mile away and hiked through the woods.”

“Are they big, Dad?” Tommy said, brandishing his father’s blaster rifle.

“They can be,” his father said. “But they’re more scared of you than you are of them, son. Now, head in that direction and watch for them.”

That was part of The Rite: Tommy had to do it alone in order to earn the right to own his gun. So he set off through the woods with the big gun. He trudged through the trees and brush, trying to be quiet on the twigs and leaves, like his father had shown him. He was so excited! He’d find the first Creature he could, take it out in one shot, and make his father proud—and earn his gun.

Tommy was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t see the Creature until he broke into a clearing, and there the beast was. He froze in his tracks even as the Creature spun about. The Creature was gathering berries, and was on her knees just twenty feet away. The two locked eyes. Tommy knew he looked as terrified as the Creature was, but he managed to bring his gun to bear, pointing at the Creature.

“Please don’t,” the Creature said.

His father had told him that, sometimes, the Creatures could talk. He wasn’t to think about that. This was a Creature, nothing more. She was dirty and wore rags, but she wasn’t much older than Tommy. Twelve, perhaps, or maybe thirteen, with long, dark hair and bright, blue eyes.

“Please don’t kill me,” she said.

Tommy hesitated, lowered his weapon a bit. “You shut up. You’re a Creature. Nothing more than an animal.”

“I’m a girl,” she said, her eyes tearing up. “Just a human being like you.”

“Not like me,” he snarled. “You’re savages! Exiled a hundred years ago because you wanted to take guns away from us. Well, I’m here to earn my gun.”

He sighted on her and fired, without thinking, without caring. The Creature flopped over, dead. Tommy’s shot had been true. He hurried forward, his heart pounding in excitement—

He skidded to a halt next to her. She was moving. He looked down, eyes wide, as she looked up, desperate and terrified. She gasped and coughed, clutching at the wound on her chest. The shot had hit on her right breast, up high near the collarbone, and she was bleeding. A lot.

“Please!” she gurgled. “Don’t kill me! I’m… just like you…”

His heart raced in panic. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to kill a Creature with one shot and remove its head. It wasn’t supposed to talk, or be a young girl. And he realized that she seemed so… normal. Much like him. And… she was pretty. Beautiful, really, like girls he knew but even better, because she was innocent and terrified and writhing in pain and fighting to breathe.

She coughed again, and blood spewed from her mouth. She was dying. He’d already killed her, he knew. She was just suffering.

“What have I done?” he whispered. “I’m… I’m sorry!”

“Please…” she tried, but now she was drowning in her own blood.

Frantic and terrified, Tommy brought his gun up and shot her between the eyes. Her suffering was over.

He stood there, stunned. It was all wrong. They weren’t just animals. And he’d killed her.

He turned and ran through the forest, trying not to cry.

*     *     *

His father was furious when he heard what had happened.

“You weak little bastard!” he hollered. “You get your ass back there and take off the Creature’s head!”

“No!” Tommy shouted, throwing his gun to the ground.

“You’ll do it—or you won’t earn your gun!”

“I don’t want a gun!” Tommy cried. “I never want to touch a gun for as long as I live!”

His father looked as if he’d been kicked in the face. “How dare you talk like that,” he snarled. “You talk like that back home, they’ll send you into the woods to be a Creature!”

“I don’t care! I’d rather be a Creature than kill another one of them!”

“You rotten bastard,” his father growled. “I’ll teach you a lesson.”

*     *     *

His father went into the woods, and after he returned, Tommy started paying for what he’d done.

Every day, he had to see it: The girl’s head, glass eyeballs looking so real, mounted on the wall in the living room—staring at him, accusing him, reminding him of the terrible thing he’d done. It was sheer torture, every day, for years.

“You deserve it,” his father would tell him. “You didn’t have the balls to finish the job with one lousy Creature.”

It was years before Tommy finally cracked and did pick up a gun again. He’d finish the job with a real Creature, all right, and once his father was dead he’d take the girl’s head down off the wall.

Then he’d go into the woods, find the girl’s family, and offer his life for hers.

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies, and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.