Bendigo Strange's

Bendigo Strange
May 23rd, 2024
Well into the evening

The temperature on the rental car’s rearview mirror read 102° on a cloudless and, still Saturday afternoon in early September. The summer’s heat simply refusing to yield. The State line was so close that you could literally throw a rock across it from the parking lot. The town itself, which laid about four miles up the road, had a population that hovered around a thousand people. If you accounted for the surrounding nine mile radius of green Ozark hills and hollers. It’s existence stemmed largely from a nearby poultry plant, along with a summer tourist season of campers, and kayakers along a clear blue river. 

My interests lay in an illegal speak easy and gambling house just south of town. Despite any notions one may have of 1920s underworld Prohibition glamour, and sex appeal such was not the case here. Dressed in a light weight, long sleeved fishing shirt, sleeves rolled up over my forearms, a pair of shorts that would make Thomas Magnum proud. With a basic pair of Teva sandals on my feet, a wide brimmed straw hat bordering on sombrero gave the impression of just another middle-aged man who had slipped away from camp. Leaving his Bass Pro tent, Walmart kayak, second wife, and three kids at the campground in order to make a beer run at the most reasonably farthest location in the area.

 Tucked in the waistband of my shorts was the well worn, almost vintage, adult life-long companion, Smith & Wesson snub-nosed revolver, loaded with Buffalo Bore’s standard pressure 158 grain lead hollow points. Two spare reloads of ammo rode next to a small, AA battery flashlight in a front pocket, while a four inch bladed Otanashi Noh Ken folding knife was clipped in the appendix position of my waistband. 

Leaving the wallet behind, I stowed a large fold of cash into the other front pocket and, locked the car. With the sun still high overhead the loose, white rock from the parking lot radiated the day’s heat as cicadas sang from the jungle like greenery of the surrounding hills.

 The liquor and convenience store acted as the legitimate front for the business. Four modern security cameras adorned the exterior corners of a store likely built during the Great Depression. The front door and windows were propped open, indicating that either the air conditioning was out, or it never existed in the first place. 

Allowing the the aviator sunglasses to drop casually around my neck, suspended by a red silicone strap purchased on a fishing trip earlier in the summer, I replaced them with a pair of what looked like prescription glasses. These were in fact, not real glasses but a covert camera disguised as such. Sliding them on while simultaneously hitting the discreetly styled record button on the ear piece, I let my eyes adjust to a darkened interior of the store. One could hear the humming of both the store’s refrigerators and the antique metal floor fans  posted like sentinels around a perimeter. The unshaved, old white guy in a beer logo t-shirt didn’t look twice as I made my way to the beer cooler at the back of the store. 

There was a short, icy burst of air as I grabbed a six pack of Miller High Life from the shelf. Pulling a beer from one of the six pack’s plastic rings, I cracked it open as the refrigerator door shut, carrying the remaining five with two fingers. There is no better way to get a feel for the place than to start drinking the beer you have yet to paid for, in an establishment where you weren’t supposed to be drinking in to begin with. 

Setting cold beer on the counter, as sweat began to bead up on the cans, I fished a wad of bills from my pocket and peeled off a twenty. “Can I get a Power Ball along with the beer? The old clerk walked to the register as his eyes glanced at the cash in hand over a set of readers, giving no more regard to the open beer than he did to the heat of the day.  His eyes settled on the cash, mine made note of the two large LCD monitors behind him that showed coverage for no less than two dozen surveillance cameras. There were the four on the outside of the building, a handful covered the inside of the store, but the main force of cameras appeared dedicated to an unseen part of the property. The illegal part no doubt. 

After money had exchanged hands it was clear he wanted to add something to our brief encounter. In his mind’s eye a whale had just showed up, but he could not come up with a way of inducing me to go gamble, albeit illegally, somewhere in the back. Trying to find an angle myself, I stalled by taking another pull from the beer, in doing so caught sight of an old school quarter machine. A sort of “soft” gambling machine much like the claw machines found in the pizza places across the country but,  instead of stuffed animals this “game” potentially pushed stacks of quarters off a moving shelf to reward the player with a cascade of coins. Or so the idea went to the hopeful sucker.

Reaching into my pocket and pulling out a few loose one dollar bills I asked him for some quarters, to which he was happy to comply. Before adding “If you want to play something more serious, we have a whole gaming room next door.” 

Bingo.

Following his directions, short as they were, to a nearby open gate and a field stone walkway leading up to the steps of an old, white, clap board house. On the covered porch I was met with two ultra modern surveillance cameras at eye level before passing through the door, into what would have been something akin to great grandma’s rural parlor. Instead of finding a room filled with antique furniture and a grandfather clock, the inside was comprised of no less than two dozen slot machines of various makes and models. Some complete with “seized” stickers from a Sheriff’s Office in another state. 

Walking past the unlit wood burning stove, I upended the half-full beer into a trash can, peeling off another twenty as I walked in, searching for a game that peaked my interest. 

The heat of the day had been been replaced by an AC unit that kept the room twenty or more degrees cooler, and I now felt chilled from sweat underneath the shirt as the steel cylinder of the little Smith & Wesson pressed into my hip. The covert glasses recorded from the same angle as my eyes, but my brain was actively recorded everything as well, “One Entrance/Exit. Eighteen, maybe twenty machines. Layout of the room..partially concealed door at rear of the room..interesting. One other customer. Female. 60ish. Married. Right handed”. There remains a part of me, quite thankful that I came of age long before technology made everything easier, but not necessarily better. Picking a machine opposite of the other patron and, a few games down from the main entrance, I slid the $20 into the bill acceptor and began to play.

The problems began a few minutes later when there was a subtle three burst vibration at my temple indicating that the covert camera had powered down. Feeling confused in the moment, knowing that the battery was fully charged, I took them off, making a show of squinting while rubbing the lenses with my shirt. In doing so I pressed the record button once more, and slid the glasses back on. A short single vibration indicated the camera was recording again. “Okay back in business”, I thought. A moment later the glasses vibrated, again three times before powering down. “Well shit.” Ignoring the glasses and continuing to play for the next ten minutes until most out of the credits on the machine where gone I retrieved a five dollar bill out of my pocket, followed with pulling a burner phone out of my back pocket. Appearing to be checking messages, I discreetly switched over to the video camera feature, hit record and, slide the phone into a chest pocket of the fishing shirt. Not ideal but, you work with what you have. 

Unfortunately, somewhere between utilizing the burner phone as a video camera, the low lighting of the room and the very wide brim of my hat I had missed something. That something being a video camera mounted about chest height, nestled between two slot machines directly behind me. Not long after the air seemed to shift in the room as though something had changed. Peering over my left shoulder in the direction of the partially hidden door at the end of the room were three middle-aged Pakistani men. Though an intel report would later confirm this, the loud untucked button down shirts, black slacks, and penny loafers without socks took me back to the streets of Karachi. 

How they ever ended up in this tiny town in the heart of the Ozark mountains running an illegal gambling saloon one could only wonder. Standing shoulder to shoulder at the end of the room just watching yours truly, as one of them smoked a cigarette, I felt my shoulders stiffen up.  Arching myself into the low backed barstool that little voice in my head commanded me to ease my posture. Not relax, but ease it. The large brimmed straw hat made the act of rolling my neck in circles probably look somewhat ridiculous but, gave me the opportunity to get a better look at the three men. 

Acting as though I was seeing them for the first time I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise, looked them over and nodded in recognition of their presence. The nod was not returned. Instead the one smoking the cigarette leaned his head back and exhaled in such a manner that read “We are watching you”. The one closest to the no-longer-secret door had a large Hi-Point pistol thrust into his waistband. “Wonderful” I thought “A Hi-Point”. America’s most shittiest yet reliable just enough to work handgun. “It will definitely work today I’m sure….also he’s right handed.” As my brain did an internal eye roll thinking about the embarrassment of living my whole existence only to be killed by 9mm Hi-Point. 

I was not alone in thinking that something was wrong, as there was an unexpected squeak from the woman’s stool behind me. The only movement was her leaving out the same door we both had entered. Now we were all alone. 

Turning back towards the three of them I decided to go with the “uncaring” approach, snorted a short laugh, turning back to slot machine to continue playing. The tone of the room having now been set. 

The fact that “Hi-Point” had decided to make a show of the pistol in his waistband was disconcerting. If they thought I was a thief who had come to break into machines that was one thing. Actually an understandable thing. If they thought I was an undercover cop and he was willing to make a show of arms that meant the criminal element here had a far darker side. It was not a stretch to think of getting shot in the back of the head, and my body thrown into some rocky ravine. That little voice began to contemplate whether they would take my body across state lines, and would that make it a Federal case? As neither a thief, nor a cop but, rather a third element simply there to collect intelligence. A direction they would not likely consider but, would not bode well in my favor to be sure.

My mind began thinking of the various legal aspects of a self-defense shooting scenario, and how they me on tape drinking beer. I certainly was no where close to being intoxicated, and beyond that one had to live through the gun-fight in order to be put on trial. Shoving the legal eagle in my brain quickly aside, I chose to go with the “maintain cover” approach. Reaching down I pulled beer number two from the six pack off the floor with my left hand, cracked it open and took a pull. Thus leaving my gun hand free. The air in the room shifted again as the door in the back opened and closed. Looking over my left shoulder I saw that the third man had disappeared behind the door, leaving “Hi-Point” and “Middleman” to continue the stare down. 

I had managed to win about forty dollars on the slot machine’s credit and was debating just cashing out when all of the machines in the room turned off all at once. Staring at the blank screen that little voice in my head said “So. It’s probably going to be a gun fight just so you know”. “Third-Man” re-entered the room and all three stared at me sitting there in the dark. 

About this time a guy named Greg Ellifritz popped into my head and decided to espouse his wisdom on five shot revolvers and multiple bad guys. Greg and I use to chat relatively frequently, and is highly regarded as a self-defense Instructor. “A five shot J frame is a one bad guy gun.” Greg probably wasn’t wrong but I told him to go away.  That little voice said flatly “If you have to shoot. Shoot everyone once, and then apply the last two as required.” That made sense. Then he added “Well…. Make sure they are ALL a threat. Only one of them is showing a gun.” Just because all three were standing there did not mean they were all on the same lethal equivalency scale. Don’t over do it, but don’t under do it either. Success is easy as they say. Just make the right decisions.

Having worked alone, and having been in more armed confrontations than I have ever cared to be in, you learn over time to rely on your brain, not your gun to get you out of situations. If I had to shoot all three of them I would. I was going to shoot in the open, make for cover behind the cast iron wood burning stove, do a reload there. Then dive out the door, cut right past the gate and into the woods. That was the shooting plan, and it felt like it was probably going to happen.

“Hey1” I said out loud. “You assholes owe me!  I was up. Forty bucks!” If you are going to maintain cover after all, maintain cover. I heard some sound only to realize it was a shiny nylon sleeve moving over a shiny nylon shirt.  “Hi-Point” had pulled his pistol. No “leave!”, no “get out!”. Nothing.

I sat there for another moment or two and wondered if the security cameras were off as well. Taking another drink of beer I muttered “motherfuckers” just loud enough to be heard then sat the can directly on top of the game. Fishing the tiny Fenix flashlight out of my left front pocket and, turning it on to illuminate the floor I picked up the four pack of beer with two fingers, stuck the light in my mouth between my teeth and stood.  Looking directly at them allowed all three to get blinded by the bright, white light. They shielded their eyes with their hands and there was “Hi-Point”. Pistol in hand. 

Taking the beer from the top of the machine in my left hand as the rest of the beers dangled from two fingers my right hand drew the .38 from my waistband. I turned back towards them once more putting my back to the open door. Giving them another flash to their faces. One said something low, as I backed towards the door, expecting any moment for it to be closed remotely. Dropping the open beer into the trash I took my leave with the expectation they would follow. They did not. 

I crossed through the gate, then the front of the liquor store, chucking the rest of the  unopened beers literally into the next state. Car keys in the left hand, snub-nosed revolver in the right I made my way towards the rental car in the parking lot. As it came into sight, opposite of the liquor store’s north wall, there the three of them stood. Hi-Point was making sure I saw his gun as he held it waist high, pointed in my general. 

“Point that fucking gun somewhere else!”. Whatever bravado the pistol had held for them diminished upon seeing, quite clearly now in the daylight, that I was armed. Hi-Point looked a little paler and lowered the muzzle towards the ground. Middle-Man it turned out did not have the stomach for a potential gun fight, going back through the side door they had come out of. Third Man just stood as if not sure what to do. A sudden realization on their part had to have occurred that when the lights went out in the game room, I had drawn the pistol. It was not as one-sided in the dark as they had thought. 

As I reversed out of the parking lot the two men had no more stomach for whatever standoff and/or gunfight had almost happened. Opening the door they disappeared inside. I felt the sweat build under my arm pits, and knew this time it was not from the heat of the day. What I did not know then, was that almost exactly one year later there would be a sequel to this encounter.  

  I decided to take a circuitous route out by driving into the next state, making a loop an hour and a half south until I came to a decent sized town. There was a trendy outdoor taco place, so I parked and went in. After placing my order I wandered outside to a table sitting on fake green grass, under a yellow canvas awning. As the heat of the day diminished into early evening I sat there drinking ice-tea and eating tacos. Thinking.

There had been no gun fight. My brain however, had processed everything as though there had been. Five rounds against three bad guys had created a worm in my head, and it would loom there for a very long time afterward.  There had been a bigger handgun, and even a 12 gauge in the car, but that fight in particular was going to have to be made with the little Airweight revolver.

Accuracy is always going to win the gun fight, Always. Back in the 80s I had read an account of a Game Warden who had quite literally stumbled into a group of poachers in a western state. A very brief gun fight ensued and he shot three men, killing two of them. He had fired three rounds from a .357 Magnum revolver. This despite the fact two of the men had been armed with rifles and the distance was inside that of a poacher’s camp. The article went on to state how it was time for the modern Game Warden to be armed with a more effective semi-automatic pistol. One can’t not disagree with the idea of carrying more available rounds while working alone, but one could hardly argue with his result. That was clearly a man who had put the work in with his gun, and it had saved his life. He, not them, had prevailed.

Theoretically there is nothing complicated about a gunfight.  The goal is simple. Shoot the attacker or attackers as quickly and, cleanly as possible in order to end their assault upon you. That is the basic requirement. Reality is often a little more opaque. As you may have to shoot from the ground while trying not to get shot or stabbed repeatedly. With your left hand on your kid’s shirt collar while screaming at them to get out of the way. Across a room full of crowded people. Take your pick, as they are each a realistic situation. Your heart racing, questioning your instincts on whether this is “the right thing to do”, praying to God that you hit the bad guy, not some kid’s mother. Whether or not the media will crucify you. That some socially manipulated mob is going to come burn your house down, threaten your family, or any number of misguided arrogantly fueled machinations chosen by the Rage Cult .  All in the course of about one half of the first second. 

There is something else. Something that happens before accuracy. That is judgement. I can not stress this enough. Judgement not only to make the right call, but, also the judgement that comes with not making the wrong call. Be careful in how you train. Because gun training is focused on the methodology of shooting. 

No one goes to the range not to shoot, and that is what a firearm is designed to do after all. The reality is you will not be in more gunfights than you ever will be in gunfights. It is seen as something of an obligatory trope when attending a personal firearms defense class for the instructor to say “the best gunfight is one that you are never in.” Everyone nods their heads and acknowledges the comment, but teach a man a martial skill and he wants to use it. Most decent schools will give “some” instruction on it, but you will never pack a classroom with how, why and when not to shoot. But the subject matter should. 

The greatest piece of personal defense equipment you have is your brain. You HAVE to see the attack before it happens. You HAVE to see the gunfight before it occurs. You need to be able to avoid, defuse, or walkaway from a bad situation. Before it gets beyond repair. There are without question instances that can not be avoided. Some lethal confrontations are going to happen whether you are scared of it or, confident in it, but it will be your brain that is going to make that decision. Not the gun. Not the manufacturer. Not the social media darling of your choosing. You can spend all your hard earned cash on the latest 9mm of the month. You can put this year’s most favorite piece of technology on top of the slide but, if your brain can not analyze what is about to happen, if you can not read the wind, or know when to leave, when to shut up, when to lock up, look up or draw, it’s all for naught. 

On occasion, go to the range, take your carry gun, pick out whatever man size target you normally shoot. Set it all up. Create whatever scenario you desire in your mind. Let it play out from start to finish. No retakes. No start overs.  Then shoot that target once. 

Just once. 

Then go take the target down and think. Think about whether or not you were right in shooting that attacker. Did you do everything you could do to avoid a lethal force confrontation? Maybe you could have done a half dozen things differently before it got to that point? Maybe his…or her, attack came on so fast and blinding that it was all you could do to get off that single shot. Wherever that bullet hole lands is the shot you got, and that is the one you need to live with for the rest of the day. Then on the drive home, that is when you do the retakes, and the start overs. It is there that you over analyze how YOU could have done different. Because in the real world that single shot is going to change the course of whatever life you were leading before you fired it. 

However, should you find yourself in that place, with no other alternative but to have the fight as presented…do not spare any effort in winning. Your life, and likely that of others depends upon it. Apply the amount of violence needed to carry the day.