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Categories: Commentary
Tags: fps, irl
“Have you shot before?” asks the clerk in charge of the shooting range.
“Yes,” says Paul. “9mmM16A2.”
“9mmM16A2?”
“I think there’s a comma in there somewhere,” I add. We’re both nervous, but at least Paul has some cred. He’s a Marine who saw action in Okinawa that still makes him blush. Plus, he’s wearing a Punisher Skull shirt. Me, I have distant memories of gun safety at scout camp, but lately my shooting’s been limited to . . . well . . . FPS’s. Anyway, the clerk seems more at ease with Paul, so Paul’s in charge of the gun: a Glock 9mm.
The Glock 9mm is an impressive handgun. It’s sleek, accurate, and lightweight–the gun of choice for rappers and the gun to use when shooting yourself in the foot in front of the Orlando Youth Minority Golf Association. We get two boxes of ammunition, two targets (hobbit-sized outlines of a man), and two shooting lanes.
As we enter the range, we put on our shooting ear muffs. Sound disappears except for the bangs of two fellow shooters emptying rounds into bull’s-eye targets. As good as video game sound is, no game has ever gotten the volume for gunshots correct. Walking past them, one shooter has a laser-sight on his gun, as well as a stabilizer, and some other contraption. Near this spawn-camper is a fellow Glock 9er, except the gun is his and he doesn’t respond to my friendly nod. I guess he noticed that Paul was in charge of our gun.Paul carries the Glock down to our end of the range and I put the boxes of ammunition down on the divider (I can be trusted with bullets). We clip our targets up and Paul loads the gun. Loading guns is pretty easy in FPSes: you either run over the floating clip or press R. In real life, you eject the clip and then start cramming bullets into it. As I’m watching Paul’s thumb turn red, then white as he puts ten rounds in, I realize that he’s been passing along sacred special forces’ knowledge. Rather than remind him that we’re wearing sound-proof muffs, I nod grimly.The gun is loaded. Paul takes aim and fires. And fires again. Four things happen. First, I learn that the Glock 9er near us has a sound suppressor. Forget bangs, this thing is booming. Second, I’m blinking every time Paul pulls the trigger. Every time he fires, my framerate drops. Third, I learn that my LensCrafter glasses are designed keep hot casings from hitting my eye. Finally, Paul isn’t hitting the target or missing it, he’s slowly tracing an outline. The fucker.
Actually, after Paul pulls the trigger seven more times, I see that his first two shots were flukes. Paul hits the target a few times, misses some, and some bullets aren’t accounted for. Which is weird, because he was essentially repeating the same action ten times. Anyway, three of his rounds have disappeared which lends more credence to the magic bullet theory.
My turn. I grab the brick of ammo, which is quite heavy–something else the games miss. It really is a brick. If you threw the box of ammo at someone, it would hurt them (if it was Paul throwing it, then there would be a good chance the box would simply disappear). I take the gun. I eject the clip. So far so good. I put bullets into the clip. The first three go in with no problem. Four and five are a little tricky. After five, forget about it. After forcing seven in I realize that if this was a game, right now I’d be reading DarthN00bkilla says: pwn. I hand the clip to Paul and he shows me the venerable Marine method of forcing the bastards in.
Gun loaded, I take aim and fire. My framerate drops, but I hit the target. Not bad. Shots two and three also hit the target. Four and five go a bit astray, but go astray to the same spot. Checking out the target, I see that my shots are going down and to the left. Adjusting, I actually manage to hit a center shot. The rest don’t have the best grouping, but all hit the target.
Taking a chance with my hearing, I partially uncover an ear so Paul and I can discuss what happened. We determine that I’m closing an eye and holding my breath before I fire. Paul and I try different shooting methods. I settle on pointing and clicking. Paul stays with his Stormtrooper philosophy that filling the air with lead is as an effective deterrent as accuracy.
After 100 bullets, we risk our hearing again to figure out what’s next.
“Hand cannon?” asks Paul.
“Hand cannon,” I answer.
The biggest gun the range offers is the .357. For rent anyway. Some of the guns they sell have barrels that rival that stupid gun the Joker used in the first Batman movie. Anyway, it’s a bfg. We actually have to convince the clerk that we really do want to shoot the .357. He tries to pawn off a .38 to us, but we assure him that we’re willing to pay extra for the .357 rounds. We also get two fresh targets: a life-sized dirt bag. As we walk back to the range the clerk reminds us to hold the gun with both hands.
I’m up first with the .357. The .357 is a big, heavy gun. If you ever need to pistol whip someone, this is the gun to use. I look at the gun then at Paul. He shrugs and says, “Lock your elbows?” Sounds good. I take aim and fire. Now this is what I’m talking about. There’s an explosion. I’m smelling gunpowder and feeling the back blast. I check out the target and I’m looking at one gut shot suspect (the target notes that the generic bad guy is based on a real situation that a police officer might encounter, but they would exercise their judgment before deciding to shoot). This disclaimer sets up the amusing possibility that I could walk up to the range and be applauded for not shooting.
Paul’s turn comes and he fares better, too. Surprisingly, the .357 is faster to load and easier to aim than the Glock. Since it does more damage, too, it’s definitely the Game Couch gun of choice. We examine each other’s targets and Paul says, “Well, I guess you get the gun during zombie apocalypse.” It’s a nice sentiment, but even though I’m more accurate overall, we each score the same number of headshots–and those are the only ones that count.