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In Stargate: Atlantis, which I have recently been turned on to by an Internet friend, they have P90s, which do not look like real guns to me. They look like pew pew space guns. I can't imagine them firing bullets; they must fire laser beams. It is a fact.
"Did I tell you," I said to Justin, "that they make P90 BB guns?"
"Yeah," he replied. "But, like, real BBs?"
"Yeah, actual BBs."
"Because I know they make airsoft P90s."
"What exactly is airsoft?" I inquired.
"Little plastic BBs. So you can shoot at each other."
For a long moment there was silence, as we looked at each other from across the room, slight smiles playing at the corners of our mouths.
Then we dove for our guns (in Justin's case, literally diving over the coffee table).
We grabbed the guns and went flying to opposite corners of the room for cover, firing all the while. I took refuge inside the dogleg entryway, sticking my head out far enough to draw his fire so that his suction-cup darts would stick to the mirror and the metal door, for easy retrieval when I needed to reload. He hid in the dining room behind the liquor cabinet.
At one point his gun jammed, and I ventured into the living room. As soon as I had a line of sight around the bar, I shot him. It clipped his ear, and startled him so that he fell backward and struck his head on the wall and fell over on his side, dropping his gun (which slowly rotated on the kitchen's tile floor, rather melodramatically).
Laughing, and realizing he was out of ammunition now, he asked "How many more do you have?" expecting me to help him reload.
Instead, I shot him point-blank in the head.
We then declared a truce and returned to our desks. A few minutes later, I looked over at him. He was reading about airplanes and had his gun loose in his lap. I very slowly and quietly racked the slide and shot him RIGHT FUCKING CENTER IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD, so that the dart RICOCHETED OFF INTO THE KITCHEN. I win at headshots from across the room.
He turned around, gun instantly at the ready; I held mine level, already re-cocked; we held eye contact for a moment, at a standoff, then slowly and simultaneously lowered our guns to the floor - still not breaking eye contact - and had a show of hands once they were down.
A few minutes later he fired at me again, the dart striking me in the forearm. I grabbed my revolver from the ground beside me and emptied the cylinder at him: six headshots, good and true. One almost hit him in the eye. He keeps his yellow shooting-glasses hanging from a bit of wire on his desk; he should wear them. His own gun had jammed, so that I emerged from the latest skirmish completely unscathed.
I'm considering getting another one and mounting it under my desk for easy access, like a pulp fiction private eye.
"Did I tell you," I said to Justin, "that they make P90 BB guns?"
"Yeah," he replied. "But, like, real BBs?"
"Yeah, actual BBs."
"Because I know they make airsoft P90s."
"What exactly is airsoft?" I inquired.
"Little plastic BBs. So you can shoot at each other."
For a long moment there was silence, as we looked at each other from across the room, slight smiles playing at the corners of our mouths.
Then we dove for our guns (in Justin's case, literally diving over the coffee table).
We grabbed the guns and went flying to opposite corners of the room for cover, firing all the while. I took refuge inside the dogleg entryway, sticking my head out far enough to draw his fire so that his suction-cup darts would stick to the mirror and the metal door, for easy retrieval when I needed to reload. He hid in the dining room behind the liquor cabinet.
At one point his gun jammed, and I ventured into the living room. As soon as I had a line of sight around the bar, I shot him. It clipped his ear, and startled him so that he fell backward and struck his head on the wall and fell over on his side, dropping his gun (which slowly rotated on the kitchen's tile floor, rather melodramatically).
Laughing, and realizing he was out of ammunition now, he asked "How many more do you have?" expecting me to help him reload.
Instead, I shot him point-blank in the head.
We then declared a truce and returned to our desks. A few minutes later, I looked over at him. He was reading about airplanes and had his gun loose in his lap. I very slowly and quietly racked the slide and shot him RIGHT FUCKING CENTER IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD, so that the dart RICOCHETED OFF INTO THE KITCHEN. I win at headshots from across the room.
He turned around, gun instantly at the ready; I held mine level, already re-cocked; we held eye contact for a moment, at a standoff, then slowly and simultaneously lowered our guns to the floor - still not breaking eye contact - and had a show of hands once they were down.
A few minutes later he fired at me again, the dart striking me in the forearm. I grabbed my revolver from the ground beside me and emptied the cylinder at him: six headshots, good and true. One almost hit him in the eye. He keeps his yellow shooting-glasses hanging from a bit of wire on his desk; he should wear them. His own gun had jammed, so that I emerged from the latest skirmish completely unscathed.
I'm considering getting another one and mounting it under my desk for easy access, like a pulp fiction private eye.
