The old silver fox was as happy as he could be this morning, which in some ways said a lot. He had emigrated, fled actually, to the United States some time in the '70's from his native Serbia. Although he spoke “eenglish” decently enough, his speech still retained a slavic flavor. He stood roughly five feet tall and was covered in fine silver-grey fur. His bush of a tail, ears and nose were tipped in black, and his eyes were steel grey.
This morning would prove to be fun, for today he would get a chance to try out his new toy, a gleaming .46 magnum. The anticipation of massive recoil practically had the fox drooling on the small shooter's table he had set in his back yard. He looked over his choices of ammunition as he donned a black leather shooter's glove. The boxes proclaimed their intended purpose:
Dangerous game: Wild boar 300lbs and up, bear, buffalo, etc...
Port authority bus
The corner of the fox's mouth began to twitch upward.
And the final box was labeled: Just what the heck DO you want to stop with a handgun anyways?
A large smile split the vulpine's face “Heh, heh, vouldn't you vant to know?” and he took five cartridges from the box.
He took careful aim at the paper he had set in a stand some 20 yards from his bench. Gently he eased the hammer back for a single action shot. The hammer locked in place with a clean positive click. Slowly, he applied pressure to the trigger until the universe shrank to only three things: the rear sight, the front sight, and the target.
The revolver roared in joy at the first round through its barrel. The lightweight fox was blasted off his bench to land in a furrow some five feet back. “Ohh, new record for factory ammunition, I have to remember this!” he chirped to himself happily. He poked his head up out of the trough to check the damage his toy had caused downrange. The paper target was still there, but off in the distance he could see a tree fall over on the hillock he used as a backstop. The vulpine smile grew even wider.
Then the explosion came to his ears and he could see the column of smoke rising in the distance, almost in direct line after the tree. The fox's ears collapsed and a look of horror replaced the smile on his muzzle.
“No, no, NO!” He quickly ran to his Humvee tossing the still smoking gun on to the passenger seat as he tore off in a beeline towards the column of smoke. “What is wrong with this place? In the old country ve had hills that could stop littl things like missiles and artillery!”
In a minute he crested the hill and could see the pile of burning wreckage by the road. He raced the vehicle down the hill and screeched to a halt about thirty feet from the forming group. Flinging open the door the fox bolted from the still idling vehicle and ran to the group.
“Iss everything alright, I vas over the hill when I... I... Oy!” The fox was momentarily speechless when he first saw the sphinx. He immediately swept the desert Khaki BDU cap from his head and bowed low. A little soil still trapped in his collar trickled to the ground as he spoke. “My name is Piotir Tchimir Gaspachem the Third, last of the Serbian Cossaks, at your service.”